Since her home was close to where I attended school, lunch breaks were sometimes spent there, and if I had five minutes to spare before I needed to rush back in time for the recess bell, I’d always sneak a quick glance at the headlines on page one and the sports section. It’s where I discovered mid-day for the first time. I had only begun to understand and appreciate the importance of reading the news and staying abreast of daily happenings. And what a high that was!

Come Sundays, after hearing morning mass, the family would usually head to her place for a grand breakfast. Being the matriarch of the family, everyone was drawn there, like a sanctuary. I remember stuffing my face with chicken mince patties and egg rolls as we kids would be glued to Disney cartoons or US sitcoms like Different Strokes on the prized ‘colour’ Solidaire TV. It was during those fun mornings with my older cousins that I first read the Sunday mid-day.

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Back in the late 1980s and early 90s that edition was my window to long-form writing. It also made me discover Bombay — the big, rich and famous who lived in it, the melting pot of ideas and people, and oh yes, the breezy celebrity interviews where they would open their hearts and homes to the reader. It was a dossier of the city that I was slowly beginning to warm up to; I began to gauge what living in a metropolis meant, well beyond my quaint, slow-paced, [then untouched] suburban confines.

She also subscribed to The Illustrated Weekly of India that held me in good stead before it wound up. That publication made me curious about Delhi and its politics, to some extent; well at least it made sense to a teenager like me. The invaluable encounters and exchanges shaped my curiosity about consuming news, being in the know about current affairs and acing an oft-used term in those days — ‘general knowledge’. Those newspaper-addicted days were my formative years in so many ways — and my aunt unknowingly was one of the key facilitators. Years later, when I became a full-time journalist, she would beam with pride each time I would meet her in the company of her friends. “She’s a journalist; the first in our family,” she’d announce to them.

Over the years, we continued to exchange notes about national and world affairs, from political assassinations to the shaky Congress cabinet. She analysed the entire week’s news rather crisply, such that if I caught up with her on the following Sunday, I was assured of a superb summary, including what I had missed. Her ticking, sharp brain was like a sponge, thirsty for information well into her 80s; her trademark touch of humour made it even more special. A call or meeting with her meant I had to keep aside at least 45 minutes that were mostly devoted to current affairs. In fact, some of us gave her a deserving moniker — The World This Week — after the popular NDTV show in the Doordarshan days.

Up until a few months back, when we had a longish chat on the phone, it was mostly about the vaccine shortage and my work; she voiced her concern about the future of print, post the pandemic. She was a true-blue custodian of the newspaper and believed in sharing this love with all who showed interest.

And now, with her in heaven, I am pretty sure not a single day will go by where the Great One or everyone else up there will be deprived of the “latest news.”

RIP, Aunty Rita.

mid-day’s Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city’s sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. She tweets @bombayana
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