Operational Time: Early Spring 1973 | Alex Age: 2 (34 months, approaching 3) | Location: Manhattan, New York City (connected with New Delhi, India)
By late February of 1973, the heavy winter snows had begun to recede from the pavements of Manhattan, leaving the air crisp, clean, and filled with the faint, invigorating scent of incoming spring.
In the sunlit parlor of the East 74th Street townhouse, Alexandra sat at the mahogany dining table slicing open a parcel wrapped in heavy brown butcher paper, reinforced with crosshatched twine and sealed with dark red lacquer wax.
The front of the package was covered in vibrant overseas stamps from India—postage marks bearing the images of Bengal tigers, the Qutub Minar, and Ashoka lion capitals.
Beside her, standing on a cushioned chair so his chin cleared the edge of the tabletop, two-and-a-half-year-old Alexander watched with rapt attention.
On his wrist, the silver lotus bangle clicked against the polished wood.
In his hand, he held the painted wooden horse that had traveled across the very same ocean nearly two years before.
“From Papa?” Alex asked, his voice clear and melodic, looking up at his mother with bright, expectant eyes.
“From Papa,” Alexandra confirmed with a radiant smile, pulling back the cardboard flaps.
“And from your brother.”
Inside, nestled between sheets of protective corrugated paper, was a hand-bound school notebook made of rough handmade paper, a tin of traditional spiced cardamom sweets, and a sleek plastic cassette case containing an audio tape.
On the white paper insert of the cassette, written in Taj’s neat, elegant penmanship, were the words: Voices from New Delhi for Our Alexander.
February 1973.
Beside it lay a colorful sheet torn from a school drawing pad.
Seven-year-old Shah Rukh had drawn two caped superheroes soaring across the sky above what looked like the Empire State Building on one side and the red sandstone domes of the Jama Masjid on the other.
At the bottom, written in bold, proud childish print, was:
SHAH RUKH & ALEX — THE BEST BROTHERS IN THE WORLD.
Alex touched the drawing with a gentle fingertip, a wide, dimpled grin spreading across his face.
“Bhai,” he murmured happily.
“Bhai made a picture of me.”
“He did,” Alexandra said softly, her eyes shining with warmth.
She walked over to the credenza, retrieving a portable black-and-silver Philips cassette player.
She brought it to the table, plugged in the power cord, and slid the tape into the deck with a satisfying mechanical click.
“Come sit on my lap, Alex,” she beckoned.
“Listen closely.”
Alex climbed into her lap, resting his head against her shoulder.
His dark eyes remained fixed on the little rectangular window of the tape player as Alexandra pressed down the plastic Play key.
The magnetic tape hissed softly for a second.
Then came the ambient soundscape of Old Delhi—the distant, rhythmic clang of a copper-smith’s hammer, the faint call of a street vendor singing out sweet guavas, the cheerful caw of crows circling a sunlit courtyard, and the clear chime of bicycle bells on the dusty lane.
Then, a deep, resonant voice spoke in calm, cultured tones.
“As-salamu alaykum, my dear Alexandra.
And hello to my little Alexander in New York,” Taj’s voice came through the small speaker, rich, patient, and filled with unreserved tenderness.
“We think of you every single day.
We look at the photos of your first steps and your bright smile, and our home is filled with pride.
Your older brother has been waiting by the tape recorder since morning to talk to you.
Here he is.”
There was a muffled scuffle, the rustle of the microphone being eagerly snatched, a playful admonition from Taj to speak clearly, and then an energetic, slightly raspy, buoyant young voice burst through the speaker with unstoppable excitement.
“Alex!
Alexander!
Little brother!
Can you hear me in America?!”
Seven-year-old Shah Rukh Khan was practically shouting into the microphone, his voice full of laughter, mischief, and bursting sibling pride.
“Baba says it is morning there when it is night here!
That is like magic!
Alex, I am in Class Two now at St.
Columba’s school!
I run very, very fast—I won the silver medal in the sprint race last week!
Baba bought me sweet jalebis, and I saved half of the syrup in my mind for you!
Did you see the wooden horse I sent?
Do you like it?
Baba made the wood, but I painted the red saddle all by myself!”
Alex gasped in pure delight, his hands tightening around the wooden horse in his grip.
He leaned forward until his nose was nearly touching the mesh speaker grille.
“I have the horse, Bhai!” Alex called out to the box, his little voice ringing through the parlor.
“I have it right here!”
Alexandra smiled through a mist of joyful tears, wrapping her arms securely around Alex’s waist as the recording continued.
“Alex,” Shah Rukh’s voice continued, dropping into an earnest, conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing the greatest secret in the world.
“I have a red box under my bed.
Inside, I am saving my best glass marbles, two comic books, and a wooden whistle for when you come to Delhi.
The terrace is very big here, Alex.
The wind blows strong in August, and we fly kites.
Big ones!
Blue, green, gold!
I will teach you how to hold the string so your fingers don’t get cut.
We will fly the highest kite over all of Delhi, and everyone will look up and say, ‘Look at the Khan brothers!’ Okay?
You promise to come soon?!”
On the tape, Shah Rukh then launched into a funny, energetic imitation of a neighborhood street dog barking at a monkey on the terrace wall, followed by his own infectious, breathless laughter and Taj chuckling in the background before signing off with prayers and blessings.
When the cassette clicked off at the end of the side, the silence in the parlor was profound and sweet.
Alex sat absolutely still on his mother’s lap.
His dark brown eyes were shining like polished stones.
He looked from the cassette player to the drawing on the table, and then up into Alexandra’s face.
“Bhai flies kites,” Alex said softly, awe and affection coloring every syllable.
“He saved marbles for me.”
“He loves you very much, Alex,” Alexandra said, kissing his temple.
“He is your big brother.
He will always look out for you, and you will always look out for him.
Do you want to send a message back to him?”
“Yes!” Alex sat bolt upright, nodding eagerly.
“Talk to Bhai!”
Alexandra smiled, taking a blank cassette from the desk drawer and sliding it into the deck.
She plugged in the small handheld microphone with its coiled black cord, setting it gently in Alex’s hands.
“When I press this red button, the tape will hear everything you say,” Alexandra explained.
“Speak right into the silver top, just like you’re talking to Shah Rukh across the table.”
She pressed Record and Play together.
The red light glowed steadily.
Alex held the microphone with two steady hands, bringing it close to his mouth.
There was no hesitation, no bashfulness.
He spoke with the clear, ringing confidence that was already becoming his signature.
“Hello, Bhai!” Alex said brightly.
“I am Alexander!
In New York!
I listen to your tape!
The doggie sound was very funny!” He giggled into the mic, his dimples flashing.
He held up his wooden horse in front of him as if his brother could see it through the airwaves.
“I love the red horse, Bhai.
I play with it every day.
Grandfather gave me a blue pencil to draw arches, and Uncle Donald brought sweet crullers from the bakery!
I am big now!
I walk fast!”
He paused, his small brow furrowing with thoughtful earnestness as he looked at the superhero drawing on the table.
“I will come to Delhi, Bhai,” Alex promised into the microphone, his voice remarkably steady and solemn for a two-year-old child.
“We will fly the biggest kite in the sky.
Together.
I love you, Bhai.
And Papa too.”
Alexandra leaned down beside him, adding her own warm, loving greetings to Taj and Shah Rukh, thanking them for the parcel, and confirming that as soon as Alex was a little older—around his fourth birthday—she would bring him home to Delhi so the brothers could finally embrace in person.
When she clicked the Stop button, Alex exhaled a long, happy breath.
He looked down at the microphone, then looked up at the ceiling, as if imagining his words already traveling on wings across the Atlantic Ocean, across continents and deserts, landing right on the rooftop terrace in New Delhi.
Later that evening, after the return parcel had been packaged, sealed with wax, and placed on the hall table for the morning courier, Alexandra tucked Alex into bed.
He lay beneath his patchwork quilt, the silver lotus bangle cool against his wrist, the wooden horse resting on the pillow beside his head.
“Mama?” Alex murmured in the dim glow of the lotus lamp.
“Yes, my sweet boy?”
“Shah Rukh is my brother forever, right?”
“Forever, Alex,” Alexandra whispered gently, smoothing the soft curls back from his forehead.
“Brothers are a gift that time can never take away.
No matter how many miles lie between New York and Delhi, your hearts are always in the same room.”
Alex smiled a peaceful, radiant smile.
In his young mind, the world was no longer just his nursery, Central Park, or his grandfather’s office in Brooklyn.
The world was a vast, beautiful bridge—and on the other side of that bridge stood an older brother who was saving glass marbles, painting wooden toys, and waiting to fly kites with him into the sun.
With that golden certainty tucked deep into his heart, Alexander closed his eyes, falling into a sleep as boundless and bright as the sky.