The Subtweet

by Vivek Shraya

  Our band is pretty easygoing, so no. Planning or practising ruins spontaneity. Plus, we assumed the award would go to an Indigenous or Black artist. Musicians like us aren’t exactly popular these days.

  2. Who were you rooting for this year?

  Leonard Cohen. He’s the best Canadian songwriter of all time and a huge inspiration for our band.

  3. How did you celebrate?

  I remember calling my dad, but everything else about that night is a blur. We all went to Fring’s the day after.

  4. What did you think of the controversy surrounding RUK-MINI and the Subaltern Speaks album Hegemony?

  To be honest, I couldn’t really keep up with it because I don’t use social media — partly because of this cultural climate of political correctness. Everyone is trying to “out-woke” someone else, and music is supposed to be fun.

  5. Have you listened to the album?

  We listened to it a couple of times on the tour bus. It has that tribal-meets-political, M.I.A. kind of vibe. Very cool.

  6. So do you disagree with the Orion jury’s decision to rescind their nomination?

  It was an unorthodox and maybe unfair choice to nominate an album that came out in 2007. But with all due respect to the Orion jury, I don’t think it’s right to give and then take away, or to cave to social justice warriors. Artists have a right to freedom of speech and expression.

  7. You have played shows with Neela Devaki before. As a white man in a white-dominated industry, what did you think of her infamous subtweet, “Pandering to white people will get you everything”?

  Neela is a beautiful human and we’ve had a great time with her in the past, so her tweet was a bit unexpected and maybe uncalled for. What’s wrong with making music for everyone? Everyone’s diversity is important. As a Caucasian, I am not of their descent, so obviously I can’t speak to their experiences, but I’m not sure why these women can’t seem to get along.

  8. What’s next for The Turn Arounds?

  We are touring across Asia next year. We have never been out there, and we are stoked to keep building our global audience.

  After Rukmini disappeared, I wanted to disappear too.

  I couldn’t be inside my apartment anymore. I couldn’t be near a phone or a computer. So when I received Dr. Zuhur Imani’s invitation to do an artist talk in her Word, Image, Sound class, I immediately said yes. Flying over Lake Michigan, I was reminded of the water whirling in my own body, that I was composed of actual matter and not just chemical reactions. A part of me wanted to dive out the plane window into the turquoise lake, if only to swim in the bigger picture.

  It wasn’t until I shook Dr. Imani’s hand outside the stately university front doors that it occurred to me that coming here might have been another reckless decision. How would Rukmini feel about me meeting with Malika’s cousin?

  “It’s lovely to meet you, Neela. I am a long-time admirer,” Dr. Imani said, adjusting her thick maroon glasses.

  “It’s nice to meet you too, Dr. Imani. This is my first time in Minnesota.”

  “Please, call me Zuhur. And thanks for coming down to the sacred birthplace of Prince.” Zuhur smiled at the sky, as if to greet the icon’s ghost, holding the door open for me and putting me at ease. Inside, the building seemed more like a church than a school, with the smell of ancient wood and gothic stained-glass windows. Was this a deliberate effort to instill reverence, or even fear, in students?

  “I forgot that this was his hometown. Do you teach his work in your class?”

  “Of course. I think Prince is mandatory course content for any arts-related class in Minneapolis.”

  “I should have studied in Minneapolis. I could be one of your students.” I had never felt a pull towards academia, but was this because I had never imagined the possibility of a brown woman professor?

  “You wouldn’t want a groupie as a teacher,” Zuhur joked and pointed at a poster in the hallway stapled on top of other colourful posters. It featured an awkward crop of my press photo, information about the event and a title in block letters: NEELA DEVAKI: HER SELF & HER MUSIC.

  The lecture hall was larger than I expected, an upside-down pyramid of maroon seats. “How many students do you have?”

  “This is an intro course so there’s a good hundred or so. As I mentioned in the email, we spent last week listening to Selfhood and then discussing modalities of autonomy by women of colour in art, so anything you want to add on that, or anything else, would be perfect.” Zuhur wrote my name, website and handle in loopy cursive on the whiteboard.

  After the students filled the seats, Zuhur tugged the bottom of her grey blazer and said, “We are very fortunate to have the artist who created the album we have been studying as our guest today. The singular Neela Devaki.”

  The students applauded respectfully.

  “Please put your phones away and give our guest the attention she deserves.”

  Zuhur joined the rest of her students in the seats and I lay down on the carpet below the whiteboard. I breathed deliberately and after I stopped noticing the smell of a laundry hamper, I turned my head towards the class. “This is how Selfhood began. For me to rediscover my independence, I had to slow down and tune in to my body again.”

  Then I moved into the first song from the album. Not accustomed to performing in classrooms, the flicking of the florescent lights browbeat me into closing my eyes. Inevitably, my mind wandered to Rukmini and her debut class performance. I’d pictured her in a smaller, high school–style classroom, but with this many students I could see why she’d be nervous. Then I thought of Malika, how strange it was that now, all these years later, I was on the floor of her cousin’s classroom, singing for her students.

  When I finished singing, I stood up and the class applauded vigorously, as though they were trying to make up for their timid welcome.

  Zuhur joined me at the front of the room. “Thank you for your incredible performance. I’m sure we all agree that the experience of hearing you live has deepened our connection to the album.” Many of the students clapped again. Others fervently typed on their laptops. What were they writing?

  “Why don’t I start the Q&A?” Zuhur offered. “Did you make Selfhood as an act of resistance towards the resurgence of girl groups of colour?”

  Was this a pointed question? Was she referring to Subaltern Speaks? Was this why she had invited me?

  “Truthfully, I haven’t noticed a resurgence,” I responded, stepping slightly away from Zuhur and addressing the students instead. “Selfhood is more of an act of resistance towards the emphasis of coupledom in pop music broadly.”

  I waited for Zuhur’s rebuttal, but when a student in overalls and violet lipstick in the front row raised her hand, I gestured in her direction.

  “Hi, I’m Samira. Thank you, Neela, for making Selfhood. So refreshing to hear what a woman might sing if she isn’t singing about a man or a romantic relationship! It felt a bit like a musical equivalent of the Bechdel movie test. So are the mostly wordless songs meant to echo how the voices of single women are culturally inaudible?”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Samira.” I advanced closer to Samira and continued, “To answer your question, I agree that single women are often ignored, or the opposite, we’re scrutinized, because we’re seen as failures.” In my peripheral vision, I could see Zuhur nodding. “But the choice to move away from language wasn’t specifically tied to making a huge statement. I just spend a lot of time alone in my apartment and my favourite moments are the rare ones that are word-free, thought-free . . . tweet-free.”

  Many of the students nodded, and some giggled at their laptop screens. From there, the Q&A devolved into the white students asking me questions pertaining to their own art projects and ambitions.

  “We have time for one last question,” Zuhur declared after checking a rusty wall clock behind her.

  Samir
a’s hand shot up, the multicoloured bangles around her wrist jingling. After Zuhur scanned for other students with questions, she said “Go ahead and ask your question, Samira.”

  “Um, well, I wanted to ask you about your recent subtweet.” Samira paused and looked at Zuhur who then looked at me with her hands open, wordlessly asking, “Are you comfortable with answering this?” I nodded at both of them. Of course students would be interested in social media drama. The group of students in the back row who had been zipping up their backpacks stopped rustling.

  “Okay. Do you think, in a white supremacist society, it’s even possible to create art that doesn’t on some level pander to white people? And where are the lines between owning your own culture in your art versus pandering if white people are often the main consumers?”

  I exhaled and the sound seemed to reverberate in the hush of the room. This wasn’t the accusatory or commendatory question I had anticipated. “I want to say that it comes down to intention. Are you wearing your bindi in your photo or rhyming with ‘curry’ in your rap as a way to revel in your culture? Or are you trying get white people to like you, the flattened idea of you they have because of your skin colour?”

  Samira frowned and put up her hand again, and without waiting for me to motion to her, she spoke faster. “But isn’t it unfair to criticize artists of colour for wanting to appeal to white people when they’ve ingrained in us to value their approval the most? Plus their approval usually means access to resources. Wasn’t your criticism ultimately misdirected?”

  I knew that I had been unfair to Rukmini, but I had been too close to the chaos to make the links that Samira articulated. Why did Rukmini warrant more public criticism than Bart or Hayley or even Marcus for the roles they play in upholding this lopsided system? Stupefied, I stumbled backwards. “Uh . . .”

  Before I could respond further, Zuhur interjected, “Those are great questions, Samira. Why don’t we circle back to them at the start of next class. And don’t forget that your assignments are also due next week.”

  “I should have prepared better for the last question,” I admitted as we trekked through the crisscrossing hallways to the campus pub, where Zuhur had offered to take me for dinner.

  “I don’t think there is an easy answer when interrogating the slipperiness of brown cultural production in white . . . hegemonies.” Zuhur paused. “What you said about intention was perfect. So was your performance. Malika would have loved it.”

  I had anticipated that Malika would come up in conversation with Zuhur at some point. I wanted to learn more about her music, about what had happened in the span of time between her university graduation and her death, to collect the pieces of Malika’s story that Rukmini had been missing.

  “That’s nice to hear.”

  “Yeah, I think she would have really liked you.” Zuhur passed me her phone, a photo open onscreen.

  “Is this her?”

  It was a studio portrait of Malika in her graduation hat and gown in front of a standard royal-blue backdrop. I remembered how much I wanted to know what Malika looked like when Hegemony had surfaced, but now I wished I hadn’t found out. Seeing this photograph made the puzzle clearer: Rukmini had likely had her own portrait taken right before or right after Malika. They had likely cheered each other on, fixed each other’s hair and checked each other’s teeth to make sure they were free of any food they might have eaten together before. This photo captured a time when they were friends, unaware that days later they no longer would be.

  “Yes. She was like my little sister.”

  “You do look alike.”

  “Minus the grey hair.” Zuhur shook her head to draw my attention to her white strands.

  “We actually sounded alike too,” she continued after we found a half-moon booth in the back of the pub. “We loved calling each other’s parents and pretending we were each other. They could never tell us apart.”

  “Cheeky.”

  We both looked down at our menus, not knowing what to say next. We sunk into the sounds of the hockey game shouting on the TVs around us and the smell of bubbling fryer oil.

  “I wish she would at least reach out to me.” Zuhur sighed, still pretending to read her menu.

  “Who?” I asked, pretending not to know that she meant Rukmini.

  “Rukmini.” She finally looked up but gazed in the direction of the bar, searching the room for a server.

  “Did you try to contact her?” Hearing my words aloud, the question sounded defensive, but I meant it sincerely.

  “No. Why would I? I’m sure she knew I existed. She definitely knows now. She could easily find me online.” Now it was my turn to look for a server. When I turned back, Zuhur and I looked at each other, both knowing we could no longer avoid this conversation. And maybe it was one she needed to have. Maybe I needed it too.

  “Can I ask what you would want Rukmini to say?”

  Zuhur sat upright. “I’ve actually thought about this a lot.”

  “And?”

  “For the longest time, I wanted an apology. But when I thought about it more, I wasn’t sure what I wanted her to apologize for. For performing songs that are half hers? Or for not pursuing music with Mali? I saw the toll Mali’s music career took on her, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. And ask me if I am still close with my university friends. Life happens.” She pushed her menu aside as though she was no longer hungry.

  “Life happens,” she repeated and laughed wryly. “Unless you die. And when Malika died, everyone around me said, ‘Sorry for your loss.’ And I hated the way the words your loss cleanly glossed over a name and a human life. Over Malika’s life. But it also suggested that I was the only one who had lost someone. Malika’s death was a loss for everyone. Not just me.” Zuhur banged her fist on the table. “In the end, that was the acknowledgement that I wanted from Rukmini. I wanted to hear her say, ‘Sorry for our loss. Sorry Malika didn’t have more time.’”

  I reached my hand across the table and she squeezed it. We sat together with our heads bowed, our tears dripping around our mouths. I wanted to tell Zuhur about Rukmini’s extensive search for Malika, and that I was sure Rukmini was devastated when she found out about Malika’s death, but I worried it would sound like I was defending her.

  Instead I offered, “Well, if it’s okay for me to say, I am sorry that I never got a chance to meet Malika. Her production on the album was ahead of its time, which is being proven now.”

  “Actually,” Zuhur said, letting go of my hand to wipe her eyes with her serviette, “when I came across your music years ago, I sent it to Malika and suggested she message you about collaborating somehow.”

  “You did? What was her response?”

  “I honestly can’t remember. At some point, music became too sensitive of a topic to broach. Especially when she took a cashier job at a grocery store.”

  “I get it. Believe me.”

  “Do you think I could send you some of her solo work sometime?”

  “I would be honoured.”

  Zuhur reached back for my still stretched hand. This bridge wouldn’t bring Malika back but perhaps it could stand for the memorial she was long due.

  * * *

  On my flight back to Toronto, I couldn’t stop thinking about whether or not Malika had messaged me. Had I responded? Thinking about her name in my inbox also reminded me of my computer, the petition, everything. But seeing the pools of water through the window again, I remembered the feeling I had on the flight to Minneapolis. I knew I had to find a way to extend the short break from my home life that visiting Zuhur’s class had given me. This meant quitting my transcription job and looking for a different way to pay my bills.

  I had noticed a Help Wanted sign at Grapefruit Moon the Saturday I had spent there waiting for Rukmini. Although I had no formal experience as a server, when I went in to apply, the manager hired me on the
spot. It turned out the server who had waited on me that Saturday was also the manager.

  “This isn’t a sympathy hire, right?” I asked.

  “No one feels sorry for you, Neela,” he responded. I wasn’t not sure what he meant, if he was referring to the subtweet or the petition. I also didn’t care. If anything, I was relieved to hear that I wasn’t the object of pity.

  I didn’t mind standing for hours, and strangely I didn’t mind having to talk pleasantly to customer after customer. I even attempted Rukmini’s Female Tone Trinity. The work was exhausting, but it was the kind of exhaustion that I needed: the kind that prevented me from going online, the kind that forced me to crash on my bed every night after work, the kind that gifted me with sleep. Being a server had obliterated my insomnia, and I was grateful for uninterrupted hours of darkness. I became so addicted that I requested additional shifts.

  The best part of the job was that when a customer complained about their bacon not being crispy enough, or the onions in the macaroni, or the lack of organic options, the complaints were never a comment on my or anyone else’s character. I’m sure some of my customers disliked the food, how long they had to wait for it or even my demeanor. But in the restaurant, I never had to question whether I was a bad or a good person. I wasn’t a role model and I wasn’t a bitch.

  Of course, I thought about Rukmini every day.

  “You are taking a job at the café you two used to hang out at together?” Since our reunion, and especially during the Orion debacle, Kasi and I had been meeting frequently by my place at Greenwood Park. One of the only drawbacks of this job was that I was now seeing her less often than I wanted.

  “Yes.” I nodded, holding the chains of the swing on either side of me and smearing the sand with my feet.

  “That’s an interesting way to punish yourself,” Kasi noted and then kicked her swing upward.

  “It’s not really about punishment.”

  “Sure it is,” Kasi yelled from above me. I joined her and for ten minutes, as the sky dimmed to pink, our swings were synchronized.