I remember one incident that moved us deeply. We saw him looking for something he seemed to have lost. He moved about restlessly, peering under beds, behind sofas and doors. When we asked him what the matter was, he spoke with restless impatience, “Where are my children? I’m looking for them. They’re lost!” We were standing right there, staring at him in utter disbelief but he couldn’t recognise us.

It was in times like these that we remembered what a loving father he had been. An engineer by profession, he often took us to work sites in far-flung rural pockets to see dams and irrigation projects taking shape. He enjoyed driving and playing tennis and, yes, he was always particular about what he wore. I still recall how he’d be impeccably dressed until, of course, this baffling disorder laid him low.

Those who have parents struck with Alzheimer’s would know that it’s best not to take them from a setting familiar to them. As the memory fades, they become like little children and need the same warmth and loving care.