She came in wearing a Sabyasachi silk sari the colour of pomegranate peel, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into an efficient bun, and carrying a Bottega handbag that probably cost more than my last holiday. “I’m not mad,” she announced before I could say a word. “I just forget things I don’t like,” said 70-year-old Mrs Gandhi.

Her daughter accompanied her. Far less flamboyant and living up to her last name in a khadi kurta that was more Fab India than haute couture, she did most of the talking. “She’s been acting odd for a few months. Forgetting appointments, asking the cook if he’s single, putting her keys in the fridge... I know they’re small things, but it isn’t like her,” she declared, glancing at her mother, who looked like she’d just walked out of an art auction. “And I’ve been baking too much cake,” her mother added with visible irritation. “Apparently, that’s a symptom now.”

She was a feisty lady, single-handedly managing the family business up to a year ago until the kids decided to step in and take over. They had already been to a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Both had offered the same diagnosis of early-onset dementia, which, for someone in their seventies, is neither early nor a diagnosis anyone wants to hear. They had even started joint therapy — the new South Bombay substitute for family dinners.