by Vivek Shraya
The Subtweet
A Novel
Vivek Shraya
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Also by Vivek Shraya
Neela
Malika
Rukmini
Sumi
References
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Dedication
For Whitney Houston
Epigraph
“Big capital uses racism, caste-ism and sexism and gender bigotry in intricate and extremely imaginative ways to reinforce itself, protect itself, to undermine democracy and to splinter resistance.”
— Arundhati Roy
Also by Vivek Shraya
God Loves Hair
What I LOVE About Being QUEER
She of the Mountains
even this page is white
The Boy & the Bindi
I’m Afraid of Men
Death Threat
Neela
Neela Devaki was an original.
She was reminded of this fact shortly after she stepped out of her cab and into the Fairmont Hotel, the main site for the North by Northeast Festival. Zipping through the masses of musicians, fans and industry reps, she felt sorry for the chandeliers, which loomed above like golden flying saucers, forced to light up the dull networking that buzzed beneath them. But a conversation between two art students, draped in curated thrift wear featuring strategically placed rips and holes, brought Neela to a reluctant halt.
“I was totally working on something like this for my final project. I guess originality really is dead,” one of the women sighed, taking photos of herself, duck-faced, with a pop-up art installation.
Neela skimmed the artist’s statement. The frosted toothpick statues of penises were “a comment on the current global epidemic of white demasculinization.” Why not just hang a red and white flag that said Make Art Great Again? Brevity was the true endangered species.
“You should still do it. All the good ideas are taken anyways. Isn’t that kind of freeing?” replied the other.
Neela snorted. She would never offer that sort of “comfort” to a stunted peer. No wonder she was bored with most of the art she encountered.
She considered sharing with these young women that she always knew she was on the verge of invention at the precise moment when originality felt impossible. That instead of surrendering to despair, she would needle in and out and through her brain until an idea surfaced — naked, stripped of predictability and familiarity. That this process often required her to sing a phrase over and over for hours until the syllables carved their own unique melody out of hollow air. She was certain that the reiteration planted the words in her vocal chords so that when she sang them, they carried the imprint of her body. By embedding herself into her song, she muted any risk of passing off mimicry as art. Why wasn’t fully committing to creation more desirable than observing what everyone else was doing and doing the same?
But defending the sanctity of originality to strangers at an art exhibit would make her seem like an egomaniac. And no one listens to a cocksure woman.
Instead, she resumed her course, shunning the other art displays jammed in between information tables, towards the elevators in the back. Once inside the ornate elevator, she furiously pushed the kissing triangles button to avoid being invaded by a friendly small-talker. When she arrived at the room for the panel, she glared at the Race and Music human-sized banner. Only someone who thought they didn’t have a race could have come up with that title. Unable to differentiate between “panel discussions” and “group therapy sessions,” she had almost declined this invitation until she beheld the glimmering word “honorarium.” She wasn’t in a financial position to refuse this rare offer of compensation.
A volunteer modelling last season’s lilac grey hair blocked the entrance, wagging the festival brochure at Neela. “I’m sorry, but this one is full. Would you like to see the list of the other events scheduled for this afternoon?”
Neela turned away and stared at the escalator ascending into the sunlight on the main floor. Before she could rush towards it, another volunteer tapped her on the shoulder.
“Nyla! We’re so glad to have you join us today.”
“It’s Neela. Good to be here,” she lied and turned to face a man who looked like an overgrown boy or a male comedian with white-tipped, near-erupting micro volcanoes under his moustache stubble.
“Right, of course, Neela. Like ‘Sheila,’” he said, playfully slapping his head. “My name is Mikey, by the way.”
“Mickey?” she responded, but he didn’t hear her as he placed his palm on her back and guided her into the room.
She was rarely nervous before an event and was puzzled by her uncharacteristic perspiration. She worried Mikey could feel her sweat through her ruby blouse until she realized that the wetness was coming from his hand. She shrugged casually, but his fingers clung to her, even when she stumbled over the sneakers of the men in graphic tees and chinos who had filled the standing room area at the back of the hotel ballroom.
When they reached the stage, Mikey quickly introduced her to the four panellists, three men and one woman, all of whom appeared to be in their twenties. They each greeted her with variations of “so honoured to meet you.” She would have gladly reciprocated, but her diligent moderator research had left her unimpressed.
“Thank you all for joining us for today’s exciting talk on race and music,” Mikey announced into the mic. The audience applauded enthusiastically, their festival lanyards flapping.
“As you know . . .” He paused until the applause trailed off. “As you know, this recent issue is one that we need to think more about. And to get things started, we have . . .”
He paused again, this time interrupted by the volunteer/bouncer Neela had encountered outside the room, who was racing towards him, waving a folded note.
“Oh, and um, of course, we acknowledge we are on Indigenous land,” he said. “Also, a big thank you to our sponsors. Without taking up too much more time, I want to introduce the moderator for today’s panel, Nyla Devaki.”
Mikey gestured at her with his sweaty hand and grinned. The audience applauded again. She smiled back at him with all of her teeth, because she was a consummate professional, even if she wasn’t getting paid enough for this bullshit.
“I have her bio here, but I think it goes without saying how amazing this human is and how lucky we are to have her here with us today.”
Then Mikey read the panellists’ bios, each one longer than the one before, and all of them featuring copious adjectives (visionary, distinct, powerful, influential), hyperbolic comparisons to music pioneers (Billie Holiday, Marvin Gaye, Joni Mitchell), and exhaustive lists of accolades acquired from organizations that Neela had never heard of. Sedated by the monotony of manufactured praise and the stench of carpet cleaner, she almost didn’t hear Mikey say, “Take it away, Nyla.”
After firming her posture and taking a sip of water (that she wished was vodka), Neela posed her first question: “What do you think is your most valuable skill or trait as a racialized musician?” She’d considered starting with a softer question, perhaps one about the panellists’ inspirations or current projects, but why waste time? All the male panellists reached out for her mic to respond but she handed it to the brown woman, despite her grandiose all-caps name.
“My most valuable skill as a POC singer is that I am here . . .” RUK-MINI declared, pointing to the stage. “I didn’t grow up seeing musicians like me on TV or in magazines. And I still don’t really see people like me out
there. Representation matters, you know?”
Some people of colour in the audience poetry-snapped while the rest of the audience loudly applauded again. The slender white androgynous person who was crocheting in the first row nodded their head as vigorously as they hooked the strawberry yarn into what looked like the beginnings of a pussy hat.
Neela tousled her short-cropped hair, disturbed by the idea that simply showing up or existing was a skill. How was that different from being white? RUK-MINI beamed in her large costume gold earrings, bangles and rings; she looked like she had just stepped out from a Little India shopping spree. Maybe this is why the audience was so captivated by her, their Bollywood dreams come true.
Neela hoped that the other panellists would respond by describing their rigorous creative practices or by highlighting how they drew on their cultural ancestry or family influences. But each response was distressingly similar — a low bar and a lack of remorse (and an overuse of the word “folks”). Were they composing their answers for applause or were they being sincere? Which was worse?
“What might POC art that isn’t just a response to a lack of representation or oppression sound or look like?” This was the question Neela wanted to follow up with, but she didn’t think the panellists (or the audience) were interested in tackling this. Instead she asked, “Can all of you speak to the systemic barriers you face in your career and how it impacts your artistry?” still attempting to redirect the discussion to a core issue. The discussion devolved into a bitchfest about the perils of public exposure and social media. Embarrassed by the panellists’ complaining, in public, about being “public personas” on Twitter, Neela kept her gaze away from the audience and on the neon-green spike tape beside her pointed flats. Given that she had never even heard of the panellists prior to this event, the real danger seemed to be that the internet made everyone believe they were a lot more famous than they actually were.
Once Neela returned home from the panel, she raced to the shower. She scrubbed her body with her loofah, hoping to wash away the memory of the panel. She couldn’t brush off RUK-MINI’s comment about the lack of “people like her.” Presumably she meant other brown women? How could she talk about her invisibility sitting next to Neela — unless she didn’t actually see her. Stepping out the shower, her body dripped a trail of large water coins. She beheld her reflection in the slowly defogging mirror. RUK-MINI was right. Neela was nothing like her.
* * *
Six months prior to the panel, Rukmini wouldn’t have called herself a musician despite clicking away in her new basement studio space. Instead of recording, she was blowing another evening tumbling through a YouTube wormhole.
Creating her YouTube account had been a gesture of allyship. A troll had been shit-talking Too Attached in the comments for their “Diversity” video and Rukmini was livid. Her options were:
a) to continue composing clever rebuttals that would have no impact because she never posted them, or
b) to respond directly.
Popular advice was that responding was “a waste of time” and that she should “ignore the comments,” but what was a better use of time than fighting hate?
She found herself procrastinating on writing her Toronto Tops articles about the city’s Best Hot Dog Salad or Hottest Pansexual Party by visiting any of the eight boxes of “Recommended Videos” displayed at the bottom of her homepage — Kay Ray, Aparna Nancherla, Hasan Minhaj comedy clips and makeup tips. After a few weeks, she branched off into the world of daredevil stunts and gradually began paying attention to the number of views as well as the actual videos.
Before she had started her own account, YouTube had been a place to find old music videos and upcoming movie trailers. She had never thought about it as a distinct medium with its own personality. YouTube popularity seemed to defy the cultural value of aesthetics and even quality. Crisp or informative content rarely won more views. Lo-fi sibling gag videos reliably had higher stats than big-budget American music videos. This triumph of the everyday over the exceptional fascinated and comforted her. After she’d hustled through her twenties, YouTube made her feel as though she didn’t have to try so hard.
Eventually, her fixation with beatboxing competition videos led her to music production lessons.
“Welcome to the twenty-first century. There are tutorials for everything on YouTube,” Sumi chided when Rukmini shared her discovery before their monthly pitch meeting.
“But these videos are so comprehensive.” Rukmini gestured at the YouTube page on her sticker-covered laptop. “I think there might even be a story here. Something along the lines of Toronto youth turning to YouTube for accessible education instead of traditional schools?”
“I think ‘Toronto’s Trending YouTubers’ is closer to what they want around here, tbh.”
She and Sumi had met soon after Rukmini started working at Toronto Tops. Rukmini had been admiring Sumi’s oversized men’s blazer at her first staff meeting, when Sumi said to her in a monotone, “So, you’re diverse too.” When Rukmini retorted, “And you must be Diverse 1?” Sumi’s manicured left eyebrow had lifted.
From then on, she and Sumi always sat together at meetings and signed off emails to each other with D1 and D2. Sometimes they “accidentally” signed emails to the rest of the team with their abbreviated nicknames, which their colleagues never acknowledged. The advice columnist, a white gay guy who lived in a Front Street condo that his parents had bought for him, had once signed an email he sent them about a Pride-related pitch as D3. They didn’t reply.
Sumi’s dry but realistic response prevented Rukmini from making her pitch but didn’t stop her from continuing to watch the tutorials. Writing for Toronto Tops was generally amusing and had covered her rent for the past five years, but constantly chasing a story made her feel submissive. She felt nostalgic for a time when she was more in control, when her creativity and skills were poured into something more meaningful than generating clickbait. She downloaded an illegal copy of Ableton and began relearning how to program drums.
“You should convert the basement into your office-slash-studio,” her roommate Puna had suggested when Rukmini told her about her new hobby.
“Why? Am I making too much noise?” She often waited for Puna to leave the house before she did any recording.
“You don’t make enough noise! This way you can be as loud as you want, no holding back.”
“Okay, but what if I get murdered down there?”
“Then I definitely won’t be able to hear you.”
When they had moved into the house on Palmerston, they had ambitious plans to turn the cavernous basement into a screening room with a projector and folding chairs. They had even discussed programming (beginning with a Deepa Mehta retrospective), snacks (Puna’s papadum mango scoops or chili lime popcorn) and charging friends and neighbours for admission to raise funds for the Toronto Rape Crisis Centre. But the dampness and darkness of the space had dissuaded them from using it as anything more than a storage dump for their suitcases and still-unpacked boxes.
Glancing up from her screen, Rukmini was impressed by how a little cleaning and a few accessories had enlivened the basement — the fairy lights she had hung along the rafters and the fuzzy rug she had relocated from the living room. But something, or someone, was missing. When she had worked upstairs, Puna’s movements around the house had not only provided company, they had also offered rhythmic inspiration. Rukmini had developed a habit of using Ableton to mimic some of the muffled sounds outside her bedroom door: dishes breaking, cupboards closing and even the frenetic pace of Puna’s footsteps.
Rukmini jumped from YouTube to Twitter and refreshed five times. When no new tweets appeared in her feed, she inhaled and opened Ableton. Listening to her most recent loop, an arpeggiated beat that she had built to hit progressively harder as it reached the eighth bar, it still sounded too stark. The water whirling through the pipes gave her
the idea to add a tremolo effect on every other snare hit to generate a more aqueous flow, but this only enhanced the loop’s hollowness. After adding two shaker sounds and tweaking the compression settings on both, she closed the file and headed upstairs, wistfully humming the song that had been in her head for weeks.
Serenading herself with Lykke Li’s “Sadness Is a Blessing” had become a coping strategy to weather her annual winter depression. At the grocery store earlier that week, the song had echoed in her mind as she had sorted through the selection of pruned fruit. In frustration, she had picked up a bruised banana and whisper-sung to it, Sadness is my boyfriend. She closed her eyes and waited for her words to transform the produce section into a flash mob like the ones she had seen in YouTube videos, where shoppers ripped off their parkas, kicked off their boots and burst through the doors of the store to discover that their dancing had wondrously spawned summer. Instead, a man had tapped her shoulder, pulling her out of her reverie, and offered, “I could be your boyfriend?”
She paused at the top stair and turned around. At her desk, she opened her drawer, pushed aside the spare cables and pulled out the mic she had purchased to record live snaps and claps. After she set up the mic stand and adjusted it to her height, she put on the headphones Puna had gifted her and spoke into the mic. “Testing, testing” felt like posturing, so instead she talked about what she had eaten for breakfast — “Puna’s lemon ricotta pancakes, maple syrup, peppermint tea.” Once she saw the green levels in Ableton oscillate in response to her voice, she stopped talking and replayed the drum loop she had been working on. Then she hit record and belted my wounded rhymes make silent cries tonight like she had wanted to in the grocery store. Less than an hour later, she finished a rough mix.
“Is that you?”