The Subtweet

by Vivek Shraya

  In her twenties, most of her social interactions had felt like she was trapped in a teen drama house party but without the drama (or the teens), repeating the same small talk and catch-ups until her mouth was dried out and blistered. Occasionally these interactions would mature into friendship, but after discussing zodiac signs, favourite TV shows and movies and sharing family and relationship histories, all that was left to talk about was the latest co-worker or roommate fiasco that had collected since last seeing each other. The words “friend” and “dumpster” inevitably became synonymous.

  When she approached a row of army-green compost bins on the sidewalk, she paused and reconsidered her visit to Rukmini’s place. What if they ran out of stimulating topics to discuss? How much did they actually have in common? What if Rukmini just wanted to take more selfies together? Neela shuddered and grabbed her phone from her pocket to check the time — was it too late to cancel?

  Rukmini had texted her. See you soon!

  Persuaded by Rukmini’s excitement, Neela wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm and continued walking while checking her other notifications.

  Kasi had also texted her. Rehearsal at 9 tomorrow? Will grab you a tea on the way.

  Her relationship with Kasi blurred the line between friend and colleague. Three years ago, Neela had been flipping through Toronto Tops when she had spotted Kasi in a photo with The Turn Arounds, who were then going by MY Turn Arounds. (Kasi later revealed that “MY” was supposed to be a clever reference to Marcus Young’s initials, but no one ever caught it.) Surrounded by three shirtless white men with beards, Kasi commanded the stage in her white tank top and zippered punk pants. Even though she was positioned to the side, she looked like the lead singer, her blue-black shag wailing with sweat. When Neela read the article, it mentioned Kasi only once, identifying her as the keyboardist. At the time, Neela had been brainstorming ways to elevate her live show and as soon as she saw that photo, she was certain that including Kasi was the answer. Never one to be seduced by mere presentation, Neela had emailed Kasi an invitation to her rehearsal space so that she could decide if Kasi had the necessary chops.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” Neela had reached her hand out. When she shook Kasi’s, Neela appreciated their immediate equilibrium — neither one squeezed harder than the other.

  “It was actually perfect timing. The MY Turn Arounds schedule is a little up in the air as they sort out their next album, so I’m looking for other work. Can I ask how you heard of me?”

  “I saw a photo in Toronto Tops.”

  “Ugh. That photo.” Kasi had been removing her hoodie and briefly remained under the black fleece. “I think they’re using it as their official press shot.”

  “I thought it was just a live photo?” Neela looked away at the wall, plastered with old gig posters, to give Kasi privacy. She had always maintained that awkwardness was a feeling or behaviour largely invented by attention-seekers (the same kind who loved to share how “nerdy” their tastes were) but now felt unsettled by not knowing how to behave in the presence of another woman in a music space.

  “It is, but people have been really responding to it.”

  “You mean people have been responding to you.”

  “Pretty much. I think they’re still sorting out their brand and what’s better than a Spice Girl in the mix? Can I set up over there?” Kasi pointed to the corner of the room with the fewest stacked gear cases.

  “Sure. Let me know if you need any help,” Neela offered while she fidgeted with a tambourine, rattling it. “So you aren’t an official member of the band?”

  “Nope. And I don’t really want to be. Right now they pay me as a tour musician, which is more than I would make if I was in the band. But there are other costs that come with my involvement with them. Shit.” Kasi bit her thumb after she hit the button on the power bar.

  “Shit,” Neela echoed and stepped towards her. “Did you get electrocuted?”

  “No, I’m just sorry to go on and on. It’s not very professional complaining about one gig while auditioning for another, is it?”

  “But I asked. I was curious about your dynamics when I saw that photo.”

  “What’s that saying about photos and a thousand words?” Kasi’s silver-ring-adorned fingers hopped on a few chords. “Anyways, I’m ready. What should I play for you?”

  “Whatever you want. Whatever you think best showcases your skills.” Neela sat down on a drum stool to calm her displaced nerves and felt relieved that the drummer who rented the space next door wasn’t impressing himself with his erratic drum fills at that moment.

  “How about something from your first album?” Kasi tinkled the first notes of “Every Song” before Neela could respond. It turned out that she had not only listened to Neela’s album several times in preparation for their meeting but had also taught herself the keyboard parts from three of the songs. Neela was mesmerized by Kasi’s astrology-inspired tattoos, which seemed to shimmer as she played, her arms the colour of a dusk horizon. Before they parted ways, Neela invited Kasi to play with her at her next gig later in the month.

  Since then, their relationship had grown, a product of time repeatedly spent in the company of another. Not like a rose, with delicate petals and sharp thorns, but like a backyard tree — steady, reliable. She knew that in an emergency, Kasi would be there for her, but they seldom spent time together outside of rehearsals or shows.

  Now outside Rukmini’s oval-glass door, Neela noted that her connection to Rukmini was also technically career-related, but somehow she orbited closer to friendship. Was this because she still didn’t think of Rukmini as a musician or a peer?

  Or maybe Rukmini was just an anomaly.

  * * *

  Since her first visit, Neela never came over empty-handed. She often brought daisies from her yard, and last week, Neela had given Rukmini a Meera Sethi Upping the Aunty postcard.

  “This is beautiful!” Rukmini glided her fingers over the protective plastic cover. “She actually looks a little like my aunty.” Leading the way to her bedroom, Rukmini asked, “What do you think of the South-Asian-artists-depicting-aunties trend?”

  “Mostly, I think it’s lovely. Honouring brown women who are often cast aside.”

  “Mostly?” Rukmini chided. Her favourite Neela thoughts were the ones she held back. Rukmini leaned on the door frame, surveying her room for the perfect spot to display the postcard. Maybe next to the thumbtacked Janelle Monáe ticket.

  “Well, sometimes I wonder who made the first aunty homage art piece and how many artists are now ripping off that artist.” Neela typed on her phone and then passed it to Rukmini. “See?”

  Rukmini studied the cubist painting of an older brown woman on a different artist’s Instagram account. “Hmm. Are they ripping off or expanding the aunty love? This person’s style is so different from Meera’s. Ooh, side note! Should we listen to Rihanna’s Anti?”

  These afternoons in her bedroom reminded Rukmini of teenage friendship. They sat in her room for hours listening to her vinyl collection, often with their legs like ladders against the wall and pillows tucked under their backs, talking about production aesthetics, liner notes and their alternate choices for an album’s first single. Whenever Rukmini played electronic music, Neela became silent and zoned out on her phone — unless it was Björk.

  “OK. Fuck, marry, kill Björk albums. Go!” Rukmini demanded the week after they had listened to Björk’s discography from beginning to end.

  “One second.” After Neela arranged all of the Björk albums chronologically on the floor, she kneeled over them and declared, “Well, I would marry Vespertine, for sure.”

  “Oooh, what a silent and solid marriage.”

  “I would kill Volta,” Neela said, lightly tossing the album on the bed where Rukmini was nestled.

  “But the Timbaland songs!” Rukmini sat up
and shook Volta in the air, like a protest poster.

  “I know. But one album has to die.”

  “Fuck Post?” they said in unison and nodded sensually at each other.

  Neela examined the Orange Crush–coloured backside of the Post vinyl jacket. “Can you believe it was made over two decades ago?”

  “I was in grade six, I think. Or grade five?” Rukmini remembered refusing to get her own teeth checked for years after flipping to MuchMusic and catching a few seconds of the creepy video with the gorilla dentist.

  “Really? Me too.”

  “1985?”

  “1985?” Neela repeated as a question, her voice slightly raised. “I assumed I was older than you.”

  “You mean, you assumed I was younger than you.”

  Rukmini stood up from her bed and collected all the albums off the floor. As she slid them back on the bookshelf, she could feel Neela’s eyes on her. Did she think Rukmini was immature? And if that was the case, why did Neela keep hanging out with her? Not wanting to follow these questions to answers she might not like, she turned around and did her best Björk impression. “Eets all zo quieth . . .”

  This seemed to swing Neela out of her own thought vacuum, and she laugh-whispered, “Shh! Shh!”

  Going back and forth, they continued singing the opening verse of “It’s All So Quiet,” melodramatically acting out the lines with awestruck eyes and scolding index fingers, belting out the chorus in unison. She loved hearing their voices twist together, even in jest. She especially loved watching Neela sing, the way her voice didn’t seem to come from her mouth but every part of her. Even her nose seemed to vibrate when she sang.

  After their singing tapered off, Rukmini threw her arms around Neela and confessed, “I really like you.”

  * * *

  Neela had developed an internal dialogue with Rukmini.

  The Rukmini in her mind was always asking questions. As Neela cycled through her morning sun salutations in her apartment, back flat and head hanging, her inner Rukmini asked, “You know how you can remember all the words to a song you haven’t heard in years? Where do you think all of those songs are stored in the body?”

  Before she had realized that Rukmini had invaded her mind, these questions and the process of pursuing an answer — dreaming a thought she had never thought before — had been intoxicating. She pictured every song she had ever loved (or hated) condensed into whole notes that occupied the soles of her feet.

  “Why your feet?” Rukmini asked.

  “Because music is the foundation.”

  “Hmm,” the Rukmini in her mind responded and then would offer how she thought songs were sealed in her elbows or another peculiar place. When they had first started spending time together, Rukmini’s incessant hmms had irritated Neela. Their wordlessness, their vagueness, had suggested condescension. But in time, she had begun to appreciate each hmm and to respect Rukmini for having the maturity to know when formal language was necessary and when sound, on its own, was enough.

  Lately though, she had become concerned that the constant presence of Rukmini’s voice in her thoughts was a sign that they were spending too much time together. Neela’s other internal voices were unsure about this intrusion. Be wary of codependency, they said. This warning was easy to shrug off. She had been in codependent relationships before, and while it was wise to maintain boundaries, to avoid the melding of two humans into a formless blob, she felt quite intact. If anything, she felt motivated by Rukmini’s self-possession and had been doing yoga more frequently, to push and flex herself more regularly. But when another internal voice commented, She probably doesn’t have a Neela in her head, she had no response.

  Last week, she had lined up an hour before the doors opened for the Swet Shop Boys show because Rukmini wanted to be close to the stage. Frustrated that Rukmini was late, Neela had mentally compiled a list of tasks that she could have been attending to at home, as though fixating on them would somehow complete them.

  “This venue is a strange choice for these guys,” Rukmini observed in her ear after she finally arrived, embracing her and offering no apology for her tardiness.

  One of the qualities she liked most about Rukmini, besides her bewitching ability to transform her appearance on a daily basis (that night Rukmini’s hair was pulled back in a boundless ponytail and her baby hairs were slicked down) was that she wasn’t hesitant about starting a conversation — and never resorted to the obligatory “hello,” a Canadian complaint about the weather or even a recap about her day at the office. She knew that Rukmini was a journalist. She knew that before she had started working at Toronto Tops, she had freelanced under the pen name Ben Travers because it meant she earned more money, more respect from peers and less online vitriol.

  Rukmini still associated her work life with her alter-ego Ben, occasionally mentioning that “Ben is writing about the wheatgrass popsicle craze,” or “maybe Ben should investigate why that storefront has been boarded up for two years.” How ingenious Rukmini was to give her day job persona a separate name. Neela wished everyone would do the same, thereby protecting their real selves and their precious non-office time. Sometimes she would ask politely, “How is Ben today?” but Rukmini seldom wanted to talk about him. Neela was grateful, not because she was disinterested but because her own work life wasn’t worth nattering about either.

  When she wasn’t researching and applying for arts grants, she typed away her days transcribing interviews for photography magazines that hired her through a temp agency. The handful of photography night courses she had taken years ago at the Toronto City College turned out to be good for something.

  “A refurbished movie theatre is a bit of an unusual setting, but there are fewer options for shows in this city than there used to be,” Neela replied, pulling up their tickets on her phone.

  “I swear there was a metal show here last week. At the Danforth Music Hall! By the way, I love your bracelet.”

  Had she gone to that show? She pictured Rukmini head-banging in her worn-out leather jacket and was both relieved and disappointed that she hadn’t been invited. “Do you just compliment people to get them to like you?”

  “What? No, I actually like your bracelet,” Rukmini said and reached out for Neela’s wrist to examine it closer. “I saw something like that on Queen, but in silver, and I still regret not buying it.”

  “Oh. Thank you. I was joking,” she added, embarrassed that her mental filter had failed to hide her suspicion of sincerity, like a stereotypical Torontonian.

  “Do you think that Heems ever feels jealous about Riz being the star?” Rukmini deftly changed the subject once they were inside and in line at the bar, pointing at the DIY shirt she had screen-printed with a photo of the boys performing at Coachella.

  “I’m not sure Heems sees it that way.”

  “I just think it would be hard to be in a band with someone who was in Star Wars.”

  At first, she had found Rukmini’s endless opinions and curiosity overbearing, in part because she had assumed these qualities were exclusive to people in their twenties. But Rukmini had managed to preserve these qualities into her thirties. Rukmini made her reflect on how much she missed not always feeling right or sure, how uncertainty was a gift that could lead to adventure or an opportunity to discover something new. Like when Rukmini suggested they try eating at the restaurant without lights or riding the Zipper at the Ex — both of which Neela thought she would hate and actually, astonishingly, enjoyed.

  “Didn’t expect to see a piano onstage,” Rukmini noted, after they secured their spot, standing two rows of people away from the stage.

  “Me neither. Opening act?” Neela tried not to observe the stage too closely to supress the ache she often felt when she went to shows, wishing she was on it.

  “There isn’t one, I checked. Do you play?”

  “Piano? Never live. That’s
Kasi’s domain. It’s more of a writing tool for me.” She also avoided the piano’s gaze to supress the ache she felt from being unable to write songs lately.

  “Hmm.”

  “Sometimes I challenge myself to compose with other instruments, but the piano is always the origin. Home.” The ache stirred. She clasped her chest.

  “That’s an interesting word choice,” Rukmini said.

  “Which?”

  “Home. I can totally imagine you living inside a piano.”

  Rukmini turned her back to the stage and stretched her phone out in front of her.

  “Would you come visit?” Neela asked and also shifted around, recognizing the selfie-time cue. Rukmini propped her head on Neela’s shoulder and adjusted her arm until the piano was visible behind them.

  “Obviously!”

  She tried to imagine herself opening a piano lid and crawling in to sleep every night. Others tended to see her solitude as a deficiency, exemplified by the inevitable question, “Are you seeing anyone?” But Rukmini’s ability to envision her living in a piano made Neela feel as though she saw the richness in her reclusiveness and her partnership with music.

  “What would you do if Kasi came out and was their piano player tonight?”

  “That would be the best surprise ever.”

  “Right? She’d destroy that thing,” Rukmini said and chugged her beer.

  “I always forget that you saw her at my show. I should introduce you two. You would like each other.” Neela added this to her internal task list.

  “I’d love that. Hey, how about Home Keys?” Rukmini suggested, jingling imaginary house keys with her hand.

  At some point in every conversation, and always at Rukmini’s instigation, they would resume brainstorming names for their hypothetical band. She had wondered if Rukmini was joking about the band when they first met, but she brought it up every time they were together. Sometimes this name game would last an hour, and even though Neela wasn’t convinced about the idea of forming a duo, she was surprised that she never tired of it.