The Subtweet

by Vivek Shraya

  love Rukmini

  Rukmini’s use of the unstylized version of her name puzzled Neela. It seemed informal, like they were already friends. But she was more disturbed by Rukmini’s use of “love,” her ability to grant this word, saturated with monumental meaning, to a stranger.

  Regretting her decision to meet Rukmini and irritated by the irreverence of twenty-somethings, she considered not showing up. She pictured Rukmini waiting for her at Grapefruit Moon, the café on Bathurst she had suggested. Rukmini would look at her phone, avoiding her server’s pitying look and refreshing her inbox, checking for a message that would not arrive. At first, Rukmini would worry, wondering if something dreadful had happened to Neela. Eventually Rukmini’s paranoia would turn on her, and she would fret that she had somehow been offensive or too forward, that maybe she should have used the word “dear” as a greeting rather than “hey” and definitely should not have signed off with “love.”

  When Neela arrived at Grapefruit Moon on time, she felt claustrophobic from its congested layout of rustic tables crammed together. If she left immediately, Rukmini would never know she had been there. As she backed towards the door, she heard, “Fuck!” She had stepped on someone.

  “I’m sorry.” She turned.

  “Neela! Hi!”

  “Rukmini?” With her hair in a loose bun and no jewellery, she didn’t look the way Neela remembered her from North by Northeast.

  “Ya!”

  “Your foot . . . is it . . .”

  “Oh, it’s fine. Honestly. You can step on me anytime!” Rukmini laughed, hugging her, and added, “I love your skirt.” Neela had paired the pencil skirt with a pinstriped blouse, like she was on a hiring committee. She felt perturbed by Rukmini’s nonchalant outfit: a cut-up crop top and jeans.

  “Sit anywhere,” called the dishevelled server from behind the bar counter.

  Rukmini threw her worn canvas purse on the table by the front window. There was a loose thread hanging from the trunk of the pink elephant embroidered on the top flap of her bag. Was she a cross-stitcher? “Aah,” Rukmini sighed.

  “Are you in pain?” Neela craned her neck to look under the table.

  “No, no. It’s so great to finally hang out, Neela. One-on-one, you know?” She pronounced Neela the Indian way, emphasizing the n and l.

  “It is,” she said, envying the cyclist who had just rode by — free, outside.

  “So. Can I ask you something?”

  Neela never knew how to respond to this question, which always suggested a more invasive question was on its way. She nodded slightly.

  “What did you think?”

  Was Rukmini asking her thoughts on the North by Northeast panel? How would Neela respond politely?

  “You two ready?” the server interjected, pen hovering above a notepad.

  “I’ll have the peppermint tea with agave,” Rukmini stated, like a regular. How many friend dates had Rukmini brought there? Did she always sit in the same spot? Had they all met online?

  “I guess I’ll have the same.” More of a ginger tea woman, Neela didn’t like peppermint but felt an unfamiliar impulse to seem agreeable.

  “My cover!” Rukmini continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted.

  “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Rukmini would want to discuss the cover. Was this why she had asked to meet? Wasn’t it enough that Neela had retweeted her?

  “Oh no. You hate it!” Rukmini covered her mouth with her ombre manicured fingers.

  “No, I liked it.”

  “Oh good! I’m so relieved. Ever since I saw you perform it at the Rivoli in March, it’s been in my head.”

  “You were there?” She found it easier to picture Rukmini at a mega pop concert at the Rogers Centre than at one of her own shows. Rukmini seemed like the kind of woman who would be on her feet for the whole concert, dancing and screaming with her girlfriends, forcing the people sitting behind them to stand.

  “Two peppermint teas?” the server announced, placing large baby blue mugs in front of them. He paused. “By the way, you’re Neela Devaki, right?” he whispered.

  She nodded.

  “I’m a big fan.”

  “You should see her live if you haven’t already!” Rukmini shouted as he raced back to the kitchen before Neela could even say thank you.

  “Seriously though, what a show,” Rukmini continued, clasping her cheeks with her hands in awe. “I love how you grabbed the audience’s attention with silence of all things. Kind of genius. And your voice, my god. I cried the whole time.”

  “Really?” Neela tilted her head.

  “Embarrassing, but I couldn’t help it. And then when your keyboard player brought out the lasagna? So sweet!”

  “Kasi. She really made it a special night.”

  “Hmm,” she crooned and nodded.

  Softened by Rukmini’s un-Toronto-like generosity and enthusiasm (or by the agave in the tea), Neela blurted, “Actually, I agreed to meet you because I loved your cover.”

  “You did?” Rukmini pumped her fist, as though the Leafs had just scored.

  Neela had been so certain she would hate the cover that the first time she listened to it, she had pressed Play on the YouTube link and retreated to the washroom, leaving the door barely open. When the song opened with the expected fuzzy synth line, Neela sarcastically muttered, “Breathtaking.” But as the song continued, she became mesmerized by Rukmini’s bright harmonies that she had found to complement the lead. From the toilet, she reached out to pull the door open. Unlike a lot of the electronic music she disliked, the drums didn’t drown out the track but instead intensified the devotion expressed in her lyrics. Without flushing, she strode back to her computer, opened iTunes and played her original song to confirm its superior status. Midway into the chorus, she unconsciously began singing Rukmini’s harmonies. Later when she sank into her bed like a wounded warrior grateful for sunset, Rukmini’s cover continued playing in her head. Since that night, she had been unable to sleep.

  “You took something I thought was already pretty perfect and made it more so. That’s power.”

  “Power. Interesting word choice.”

  Embarrassed that she had offered too much praise, she thought about also confessing that she had hoped meeting Rukmini would somehow restore her own power, that maybe, like in a myth, when Rukmini’s mouth opened, Neela’s song would escape and return to her, its rightful owner. Instead she asked, “Have you ever thought about recording your own material?”

  Rukmini bowed her head over her empty mug. “No. Covers are my thing, I guess.” She used air quotes to emphasize thing.

  Feeling guilty, Neela thought about asking the server for more hot water. “They don’t have to be?” she offered.

  “Hmm.” Rukmini paused. “You and I should start a band!” she announced, sitting up taller.

  “A cover band?”

  Rukmini let out an incredulous ha. “You don’t do covers.”

  “How do you know that?” As she reached for her phone to check the time, Rukmini put her hand on Neela’s.

  “Neela Devaki, I know everything about you.”

  * * *

  “How did it go?” Puna yelled from the kitchen when Rukmini got home.

  Whenever she tried to guess what Puna was making based on the smells that seeped into her bedroom, she consistently failed. What smelled like an omelette to her turned out to be crème brûlée, oatmeal turned out to be blueberry pie. But she kept guessing because she liked the adventure of testing herself and being corrected, the reminder that even her senses — her life guides — could be improved upon, strengthened.

  “I don’t know. Is that roasted yams?” Rukmini deflected, hanging up the jacket Puna had left on the couch in the front closet. She tolerated Puna’s untidiness because of her inventive culinary skills — which she employed
as head chef at the trendy and conveniently close tapas bar Bar Raval — and her magnanimous leftovers.

  “Fried plantains! But tell me about Neela,” Puna pressed, without leaving her domain.

  “She was different from how she was at the panel. More tentative.”

  “Like, cold?”

  “No, like . . . afraid. I told her that I would like to be friends and you should have seen her face,” Rukmini walked into the kitchen and played Freeze!, imitating Neela’s blank expression.

  “Aww.” Puna wiped her hands on her yellow chef coat, a tall daffodil in the wild kitchen. She kissed Rukmini’s cheek. “They’re almost ready, okay? Gimme ten.” Puna turned her attention back to the stove. “First hangouts are always awkward.”

  “True.” Rukmini tried to ignore the cutting board sloped against the backsplash, dripping sticky juice onto the counter. Puna was used to having others clean up for her, but Rukmini would tackle the mess later, once her stomach was warm with sautéed sweetness.

  Puna shook the pan, the plantains crackling. “Or maybe she really is afraid of you!”

  “She should be! I’m a nightmare!”

  She expected Puna to laugh, but she didn’t. Or maybe she did and Rukmini didn’t hear her as she ambled to her bedroom. After she landed on her bed, she flipped through the selfies that she and Neela had taken before they had left the café, swinging her calves and feet in the air.

  “Do you like this one?” She had handed Neela her phone after selecting the photo she thought was most flattering to Neela, emphasizing her chiselled cheekbones. Neela had looked anywhere but at the camera in every shot. She assumed this was because Neela, like most people, didn’t like how she looked in photos. But Neela wasn’t like most people. If Neela’s discomfort wasn’t so obvious, Rukmini would have added, “God, you’re beautiful.”

  “Any of them are fine.” Neela pushed open the café door, letting the wind smack around the Open sign, without turning back to look at the phone.

  “Do you have a favourite filter?”

  “Do you?” Remembering Neela’s crisp tone here, it occurred to her that maybe Neela didn’t want to be in a photo with her. Maybe Puna was right.

  “I generally hashtag no filter because they seem to only make me look lighter than I am, and I’m already seen as not brown enough.”

  “Yeah, photography is optimized for white skin.” Neela rolled up her sleeves, as if to offer her dark sepia skin to the sun in defiance.

  “Really? I guess everything is, but I’m still always surprised.”

  She posted their photo on Instagram, sans filter, tagging Neela, with the caption:

  hung out with this legend today!!!!

  She clicked on Neela’s handle and scanned her photos. Neela was in very few of them. Her grid was all plants, park settings and skyline sunsets, symmetrically composed. Rukmini then searched under Following. Neela followed ALOK, Heleena Tattoos, Nimisha Bhanot and other South Asian creatives — but not her. Why hadn’t Neela followed her back? Were these artists more skilled? Was their brownness more apparent because of how clearly it was a part of their work? Were their numbers more impressive? Or had Neela just not yet seen Rukmini’s account?

  Flipping back to her own account, she reviewed her grid of mostly selfies, alone or with her friends, and photos of Puna’s cooking, trying to imagine what Neela would think. Basic? She chewed on the hangnail on her thumb. Had she blown it with Neela, making a poor first impression in real life and online?

  She bounced back to Neela’s profile and clicked on Message beneath her profile photo (a pointy succulent planted in a cream conch) to send her a damage control DM:

  so great to meet with you today! excited about our band xoxo

  Then she tucked her phone under her pillow, grabbed the basket of dirty laundry in her closet and trekked to the basement. With every item she tossed into the washer’s gaping mouth, she dissected every sentence she could recall saying to Neela, analyzing the implications of her words and how they might have been misinterpreted.

  Had she raved too much about Neela’s show or song, like the excess teal detergent drooling off the rim of its bottle in her grip? Had she come across like a starry-eyed fan? Had she embarrassed Neela? Or herself? She’d read interviews where celebrities talked about never knowing who to trust, who their real friends were. Did Neela think she wanted something from her? She regretted suggesting they form a band, even though she was sure it was a brilliant idea.

  As she returned to her room, she mentally art-directed the photoshoot for their first album cover. Against a tiger orange background, their bodies, wrapped in brown fabric, would be entangled in a way to convey both tenderness and an impermeable bond. Sisters.

  She interpreted the eighty-seven notifications on her phone — all likes and comments on their selfie — as confirmation that their band would be a success. As the likes continued to climb, she revisited her own selfies from the previous week to compare the numbers. None of them had as many likes as the new one with Neela. She tried to tell herself that the popularity of their photo was because it featured both of them — double the interest, double the likes. But as evening plunged into night, she became more certain that the likes were strictly for Neela.

  Before she fell asleep, her thumb wavered over the photo.

  Then she clicked Delete.

  * * *

  Neela didn’t expect to see Rukmini again.

  When a first coffee date did happen in the city, it was rarely followed by a second. Instead, the coffee date functioned as urban social taste-testing. There was always a fresh, edgy artist emerging from the concrete every few months. Meeting with them was not only a way of raising one’s own profile, it was also restorative to discover that “new” artists weren’t actually as interesting or as talented as everyone had proclaimed — or as poised as they appeared on social media. After they would finish touting the umpteen projects they were toiling on — making video art about their pregnant hamster and writing a poetry book entitled Sufferin Street and launching a shareable underwear line for gay couples — their stamina and sheen would predicatably fade. Nothing destroyed mystery like hearing a supposedly groundbreaking artist confess familiar insecurities, or watching them chew on a ham sandwich and deciding when to mention the bit of kale wedged in their front teeth. Neela herself had been sampled and spat out many times, and although she knew that this behaviour “wasn’t personal” and that people were “very busy,” she restricted the number of coffee date requests she obliged and quit drinking coffee altogether.

  She assumed Rukmini had gotten what she wanted out of their coffee date — a selfie, proof of their association (though surprisingly Rukmini never posted it). A few days later, when Neela clicked on the paper airplane icon in the top right-hand corner of her Instagram account, she found two DMs from Rukmini:

  so great to meet with you today! excited about our band xoxo

  Hey Neela! When are we hanging out again?

  416-852-1472

  Neela stood up from her desk and bent her knee into a warrior pose while looking at her phone. After a minute, she sat back down and gave in.

  Hi Rukmini. Neela here. I’m free on Saturday.

  Rukmini texted back instantly. Neela! How about Friday? Shani Mootoo is speaking at Harbourfront. She included a link with more information about the event.

  Oh, I would have loved that. Cereus Blooms is one of my favourite books. Unfortunately, I have a big Canada Council grant deadline to meet.

  Neela glanced up from her phone to the budget spreadsheet cage on her computer and contemplated the freedom she’d gain by adding several zeros to the numbers she had entered in every cell for her living and recording expenses, and clicking Submit.

  Same! I read it in my postcolonial lit class in undergrad. First time I encountered a self-assured brown trans character in a book. A rare combo!

&nb
sp; His name was Otoh right? He is definitely memorable. That book is art.

  Stepping away from her computer again, Neela walked to her alphabetically organized bookshelf to locate her copy of Shani’s book, phone in hand.

  Aren’t all books technically works of art?

  Only if the writing is noteworthy.

  She set Cereus on her bedside table to reread, Rukmini’s messages reminding her of the pile of books in her bedroom closet she intended to dispose of at the library.

  Ha ha! So you don’t think writers are inherently artists?

  No. Anyone can write a book these days, Neela texted and then put her phone down on her bed and stacked the books from her closet beside the front door so she wouldn’t forget to get rid of them at last. The weight of the books grew heavier as she thought about their contents — what little she could remember of them. How could so many words, so many sentences, amount to so little impact?

  When she picked up her phone again, Rukmini had texted back. True. One of my fave tweets is by @rawiya: “listen it’s ok to not write a book.”

  Exactly.

  Well, I’m so curious to find out what other books you like. I want to read them :) Good luck with your grant app! Stressed face emoji Why don’t you just come over on Saturday? We can chill!

  Chill. What did that involve? That Saturday, she walked slowly to Rukmini’s house, inviting the muscular humidity, her summer companion, to encase her body. She tried to recall the last time she had made a friend. In grade school, her classmates always unravelled to be less interesting than she had imagined they were in her head. She eventually traded being allured by someone’s potential (and feeling the disappointment that ensued) for her own company. This had been the appeal of Twitter — a forum to engage with herself as often and as freely as she wanted and, even better, to document her thoughts. Often, when she began to write a song, she would pull up her Twitter page and pluck from her recent tweets as a lush garden of ideas.