The mall is packed. Two weeks from Christmas, so there are carols on loop, a giant artificial tree in the centre of the ground floor, flecked with bits of cotton and tinsel. In one corner a scary-looking mechanical Santa with a sleigh filled with presents waves his hand up and down. Blue-eyed elves nod maniacally with him. Around this winter wonderland runs a toy train making high-pitched choo-choo noises. Families gather around this installation and take photographs. College kids in skinny jeans pout in groups. Clusters of men, always clusters of men – hands in their pockets, fingers chocked to balls.

It is nothing like the expeditions Ma and I used to make to Spencer’s before it burned down. Such a dearth of stuff in those pre-liberalisation days. Christmas had still been about presents, but they used to be such meagre everyday things, like an orange or an apple in your stocking, a pair of plastic earrings. Rarely something extravagant like a new bicycle or a Walkman. This is new India – crazy, glitzy, spending India.

Lucia and I manoeuvre through the crowds. We stop for an ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. My toes are sore and my head hurts. I’m lugging around a bunch of things I’ve bought for the house already – wooden hangers, towels, ceramic knives. Still no dress.

We wander past a place called the Big Bazaar. Lucia drifts in. ‘Not here, Lucy, come on. It’s a mess.’ But she is already flicking through the racks, pleased with what she sees. I spy the dress before she sees it. It is a sequinned pink thing, tiered, with a full skirt and an unflatteringly tight bodice. Sparkles everywhere. No point telling her it will make her look like a giant ball of candyfloss. We tussle in the changing room to squeeze her arms in, but once it’s on, she flounces about on her toes and grins widely.

The drive home takes longer than usual. I have never made a trip to the city without spending at least one night there, so I feel the fatigue of the traffic, the crowds, the ting-tong mall music. Lucia sleeps, head knocking against the glass of the window, tongue poking out of her mouth. Does she dream of her new pink dress? I feel angry, powerless; I can’t articulate it, but it has to do with the way people look at her. Families, children, grown people who can see there’s something different about her but who are so unused to the sight they can only gape. I wanted to smash in some of their ugly faces. I had hoped for what? Empathy? A jaunty day out with my sister. Instead, I am drained, barely able to drive back home.

As soon as we are slipping through the long driveway, I feel the blood return to my legs. The dogs are around, making all kinds of noises, tails frantic, paws in the car, scratching at the seats.