I love you

I could hear him in the garden, watering the plants. Its his morning ritual now— tending to the hundred or so flower pots in our garden. Ever since Anu started living in the U.S, he has taken it upon himself to keep her garden going. Watering, weeding, pruning, he has become a complete gardener is what I often feel. Every time that Anu calls, both of them have only time to talk about the plants. How the orchids have bloomed or how the jasmines haven’t been doing well…it amuses me to hear them talk. I still remember when Anu was in school and she suddenly took it into her head to start a garden. The times she had her father rush home from the hospital to go around the town getting new plants and the times she barged into his consulting room crying about some plant or the other which had wilted…

I’ve never been an outdoor person and except for helping anu with getting the pots decorated I’ vent done anything much. It has been father-daughter all the way. And now its just him. He says he is doing it so that he gets some exercise in the morning, but I know better. He misses Anu, and this is his way of staying close to her.

The tea’s growing cold. He’s taking a bit longer than usual. I keep my coffee mug and his teacup together. I should remember to get biscuits when we go for our evening walk. And yes dog food too. Hagrid, Our 5 yr old Labrador will go hungry if not.

“You done yet”? I shout out
“Almost”

5 minutes later, he comes in dragging all the dirt into our tiny living room. Now, I’ve never been much of a house keeper and I hate all the cleaning-washing routines. I open my mouth to ask him what exactly he is doing but before I can get a word in, he walks right past me, gets the broom from the kitchen and with a sly glance at me starts sweeping the floor. I close my mouth and stare at him, hands on hips.

He religiously sweeps the whole place, keeps the broom in its place, and sits down at the table with the tea and waits for me. I keep standing there looking at him. And then we both laugh-together. I cant help it. Nor can he. I sit down next to him and keep laughing and in my laughter fit, I knock down his tea right onto his lap. He jumps. I stop laughing and look at him, scared I’ve hurt him. And he still laughs, and I join in. I put my hands around his neck and continue laughing…

The laughter slowly dies out and we cuddle into each other more. He takes my hand and gently kisses it, and places it over his chest. I take the coffee mug and offer it to him. He takes a sip and then presses it to my lips. We finish the coffee together. Still in the half hug…

We have grown up and grown old together. We’ve seen good times and the bad. Tough moments and lighter ones…we’ve lived together for 28 years now…and it all seems like yesterday that he walked into into my life—a stranger. And now—I know how exactly he likes his tea, I know which side of the bed he usually likes, I know the way he hugs me at night, the way he drinks his coffee, the way he runs his hand through his hair, the way he looks, after he’s just woken up, the way he reads the newspaper…I’ve grown to love everything about him—the way he slurps juices, his funny little moustache, his way of forgetting to shut the main door every time he goes out, the way his t-shirts always have mud splotches on them, the way he smiles in that bemused way of his when I tend to scold him—everything…

Nothing matters to us than each other—I don’t care that we’ve grown old, and that the skin on my hands have lost their smoothness-I still feel the same way when he takes my hand in his. I don’t care that both of us need glasses now—we still see each other with ever growing affection. I don’t care that I’ve put on weight, all in the wrong areas, he still hugs me the same way he did when we were young…I don’t care a bit- I don’t need to…

I realize that he has been calling my name—his name for me…and I smile at the circumstances that had led him to call me that. I lift my head from his shoulders and I look up at him…he smiles that dimpled smile of his and gently tucks back a loose strand of hair from my face…

'I love you' says he…and I remember the night that he told me the words for the first time…it seems centuries ago…but I still feel that I am the 19yr old who cried with pure happiness, listening to him…

whitewashed brain

When I was about 4 years old, I broke my arm. I had tried to squeeze into a shelf with my teddy bears, and found myself stuck. I un-stuck myself a few seconds later, only to have a cast on my arm a few hours later. I dint know autographs on casts were fad. I decorated it with mud instead

I absolutely loved going to school. My parents didn't. In the going to school ordeal, I tore about 3 of my Amma's saris, bit my ammumma some 50 times, kicked my achan and made our neighbors rush into our home, with my bawling. No wonder we changed homes every two years

Going to the post office with my Muthassan was my favourite pastime. Especially because my muthassan always told my ammumma that he wouldn’t take her to the post office. I felt jubilant and marched off after my grandfather, happy to stick stamps on with the very murky and smelly glue.

I had to walk barefoot in my school once, for not wearing the proper school shoes. Luckily on unluckily, I said the pledge that day in the assembly. I tried in vain to shut out the sniggering and giggling. Needless to say, my pledge went India is my country. All Indians are my brothers and sisters. I sob... shall always. Sniff sniff. Sob...waaa.....waaa.... they still did not however, let me wear my shoes.

I thought that being a vegetarian was boring. I tried to pass off the dried mango pieces in my lunch box as meat balls. No one believed me.

The first time I was on stage for a dance, I was thrilled at the idea of wearing lipstick. My muthassan spoilt it all by asking the make up person not to put it for me as lip stick contained toxic ingredients.

I told my achan off for not letting me sing all that I wanted to. I was on stage, mic in front of me and around 100 people looking at me. My father was compering. It was a banker's union family meet.

When I was in kindergarten, a boy in my class had a white birthmark under his eyes which looked as if a tear was running across his cheeks. I refused to wipe away my tears for a very long time to get a similar mark. It never happened that way.

the day...

I wished to have a moment of peace in my home. But that I think is the least I could hope for tonight. There's music blaring from the speakers. The sound of people talking to each other at the top of the voice came from all possible places-inside, outside, the living room, kitchen, bedrooms...everywhere. The phone kept ringing...and no one seemed to pick it up...

I am sitting in my bedroom. There are people all around me. Aunties, grandmothers, babies, little imps of kids...everyone. I want a little peace, a room of my own. But of course am not allowed that. I have to smile, and exchange pleasantries with the million faces that present themselves before me. I cringe inside and keep smiling and nodding my head to the aunty who keeps rambling about my childhood antics to anyone who'd listen. In between wanting a little silence, and trying to ignore the pain in my cheeks from excessive smiling, i wonder how this 'aunty' knows so much about my childhood, when I don’t seem to remember seeing her at all.

My sister, the ever welcome whiff of fresh air comes in and declares. "Amma says Chechi has to sleep early. The function begins early tomorrow". A sudden outburst of "is it time already?", "Look at the time", "poor girl, she must sleep. Dark circles wont do tomorrow" was followed by my sister shepherding the twenty or so people crowded in my room, out to the hall.

I sigh and sit at last in relative silence. The speakers are still blaring.

I open my cupboard to pick out something to wear for the night instead of the heavy Kanjeevaram saree that I am wearing and my eyes fall upon the dozens of velvet boxes sitting on my shelves. Slowly I pull each out and lay them open on my bed. Nagaphanam, kaashi maala, poothaali, palakka mothiram, pearl and ruby, garnet necklaces... and other boxes full of bangles. Some new, some old, yet polished so that they defeat the new ones in their brightness...

I looked at the red Kanjeevaram silk saree that I was supposed to wear tomorrow.

I had longed so long for this day. This hullabaloo happening in my home, the guests, the noise, the colour of the mehendi, now deep on my palm. I had seen myself adorned and bejeweled, looking happy and content beside the man of my dreams. This had mattered so much to me...the wedding, the preparations, the dressing up, the invitations, the fragrance of jasmine flowers, and the scent of the incense sticks, everything...

And yet, today when I should have had genuine smiles on my face, instead of the plastered one, when I should be delighted at how dark my mehendi has come out, all I feel is numbness, a vague fear at the back of my mind, a wild desire to run away...

Tomorrow is my wedding. With the man I love with all my being. I should have been happy….but am not…

Of times and timings

Its been nice being at home. I wake up to Amma's usual indignation of me sleeping on after the wake-up-deadline of 8am everyday. My father can be seen eating his breakfast at the table, silently oblivious to anything and everyone. Occasionally looking up to check the time on the wall clock. I'd still pretend to be sleeping, though I would have woken up some 2 hours ago, to wake a certain someone up. But I should say that these waking ups do not in any way hamper my sleep. waking up is OK. Its the getting up from bed that is a pain in the 'wrongest' place.

Just when I think Amma has given up on me and that I can steal in another 10-15 mins, I hear Achan thundering my sister's name. My very punctual sister is, as usual late for her classes. Amma and my sister are stalwarts at keeping time. Give them a deadline of 9am in the morning, you can be rest assured that you'll see them out of the house, very punctually, at 10.30 am. I am ready by a quarter to 8, Achan at almost the same time and Ammumma around 5 mins to the said time. Amma meanwhile can be seen humming away a song at the top of her voice, the pitch,rhythm, tune all intact. The lyrics, a mess. This facet never fails me irritate me as am particularly finicky about the lyrics of a song, not much about the other necessary factors. But all said and done, Amma still creates havoc with the lyrics and keeps singing. I bite my tongue and try to convince myself that the lyrics could have been probably written like Amma sings them too.

In between the singing and rushing out of rooms here and there, and the never ending search for safety pins to pin up her Saree, punctuality is lost on Amma. My sister, the boss of my family, and also the youngest member, believes in the motto of going out well-dressed. OK. I get that point. But not the reason why it takes so long. Before going out, my sister changes her hairstyle from a plait to a pony tail, to a french plait and then back to a plait. Her dress changes from jeans and pink top, to a black shirt, to the pink top again and then to her usual favourite white striped shirt. And then, she invariably has to wear the matching earring, slippers and watch. By the time my sister is done with her Queen's dressing and has stepped out of the house, Achan would have already started the car, blared the horn 12 times, and decided to call off the outing 3 times. Amma would have by then realized we are horribly late and begin her woes about how little chores always make her late,and ammumma would have finally finished all her sudoku exercises in our two morning dailies. I would sit next to the window, watch everything happening around me and feign concern over the necessity of punctuality. But honestly am hardly bothered. We invariably make good time anyway-all credit to Achan's brilliant car maneuvering skills.

So to come back to my mornings. I venture out of my bedroom after possibly everyone has stepped out of home. Ammumma would be happily struggling with her Sudoku and would be lost till I voice my need for coffee if she can make it. The coffee is usually the only good thing that happens in the mornings these days. The very thought of dragging myself to the good for nothing internship, at Indian Express, where I see my name printed along with articles, which I would never accept as mine, even when threatend with death, puts me off immensly. But then there are things in life which you've got to do, and counting this as one helps me just a wee little bit. And then there is always a slight twitch of the heart whenever my name appears on paper, and also an opportunity to stun people who think tuppence about you by telling them that you 'work' for the Indian Express...sigh! Probably what they call little pleasures in life.

from the past to the present and back

I know it does not sound very interesting when i say that I love her. And it still is not interesting when i say that she loves me too. but then again, if you people knew me, as in really knew me, then you would sit back and take notice now. as in right now. because i happen to be a ghost. yes a ghost. not the fanged, horrible, blood thirsty gruesome creatures that you humans picture us, but yet a ghost...


i saw her in her backyard. reading under the mango tree. you wouldnt call her pretty. but you would certainly call her beautiful. decribing her would be futile. as i am not very good with words. but the thing is, i fell in love with her as i sat looking at her. we ghosts as you humans think, cannot become nvisible. but we can do a lot of other things. we are shape lifters. i can be a tree, a butterfly, an earthworm, a bird a snake...anything natural, anything with life...except ofcourse the human form. but we cannot forever dwell in these...as they say, we need to move on...


i do not have a past. no ghosts have. as soon as we are dead, our memories are wiped clean...we have no recollection of what we were, or where we were from...we are souls...with no memories. we roam around everywhere. in fact there are mosre ghosts than there are live people. but of course you will not know that. because you i presume is right now a walking talking breathing living human. but if you were slightly careful when you walked down close-to-empty streets, or sat under a tree, you would save us a lot of trouble. i for instance have been walked right into countless times. not that it matters much to us, but you admit that it is a bit odd when you find people walking right through you. sometimes, the more sensitive human-i must admit these are very few, do sense something when this happens. i've heard that walking into a ghost gives you a tickle in your neck. i dont know how this works, but that is how it works. but of course you humans would surely dismiss this. and consider this piece of trivia utter trash. sigh!

anyway, so i was on one of my shape lifting, shape hoppin moods one day. i became a grasshopper first. i thought it would be nice to go hop hop hop. but it was very tiring. i dont know if all grasshoppers are like that, but the one i happend to pick was unbelievably frisky. so i left it and became a blade of grass. i like green colour, in case you are wondering baout my choice. but being a grass is faced with a lot of risks. there are all kinds of bugs and insects around and they start eating you. again, it does not matter to me, as i cant die again you see, but you always tend to gasp in horror when an insect starts nibbling you.

so i decided. no more playing with risks. i'l be a flower. i wanted to be a diffrent flower. the kind no one notices and no one plucks. so i became this small yellow flower. mukkootti its called-but this i came to know later. so in anycase, mukkootti i became. but it was not long before i found myself being plucked. i groaned in dismay. so much for my big plans.

but the fingers that plucked me were gentle. i looked into the face that had spolied my plans. i couldn see the face properly, because she was carelessly twirling me in her fingers and looking the other way. but then she turned and looked straight at me and i swooned. she was so breathtakingly beautiful and i fell in love with her immediately.

it is not unheard of ghosts to fall in love. but i admit it is very rare. ghosts have no present past or future, we dwell in someone's past, someone's present and are sometimes someone's future. we never make choices. those are already made. by the seasons that change, winds that blow and rains that fall. we thus move on suddenly, without even us knowing and end up in a place, very different from the one we were used to. this constant change and our almost complete disdain for the human race stand in our way of falling in love with humans. but then you might have heard the term marriages made in heaven..well they did not come into being suddenly. some ghosts fall in love with fellow ghosts and become one-as in they become just start moving on together, forever.

and so i might be the first ghost in history to fall in love with a human. and to be loved back too. for i knew the girl loved mukkooti flowers and i loved her anyway...so isn this a perfect love story?

narratives of daily life

loud voices outside the door. intelligible language.unintelligible meaning.telgu.angry protests from my room mate. i snuggle deeper into my blanket.the unmistakable vibration of my cell.a message from him. a reminder of the night. sleep beckons.10 am is still early morning.a string of blue beads. a swift good bye from my rom mate. reminders to drink milk. sleep refuses to leave my eyes.



a filled bladder.beats any alarm clock. tooth paste,brush and the tiny wash basin. the faulty flush in the loo. back in room. drinking chocolate,milk and spoon.the battle begins. it ends up in a starving stomach. a tiger buiscuit. all that is left. an unread paper. read though seemingly unread.



the flicker ofthe system. articles to edit.messages pending. nonchalance. a super slow network.waning patience. a chance for the paper again.attempt at a song. forgotten lyrics. editing again. a glance at the clock. one hour gone. rest of the day looms. readings stare point blank. a missing drive. the stapled readings lie.untouched.



a smile. thoughts of the night again. a widening smile. half an hour for lunch. a lost appetite.

coffee machine. another of those puffy samosas. hot sun. fluttering curtains. thoughts of a bath. pink bucket and an ash mug. long nails. cracked heels. lots of moisturiser. kajal.

room again. whining of dogs. misplaced anger. pending work. a miss call. hint of a smile.

dinner. an empty full stomach.

night

stolen moments

“You like teasing me don’t you?” He muttered sleepily.
“Huh? What did I do now?” she chuckled wickedly.
“Nothing. Forget it. Am going to sleep. You coming back in or not?” he asked lifting the blanket to allow her to slide in.
“Nah. Am not sleepy anymore. I am going for a walk”
“mmmph nnng” came a muffled grunt from somewhere under the sheets.

Swish swash. The blanket went for a toss.

“You can’t sleep when am up and awake. Come on...up you get….” She started prodding the side of his tummy with her cold toes.

“AAARRHHH”

“You bitch! Wait till I get you”

He leapt out of the bed in mock anger and leapt at her. With an almighty squeal, she caught hold of the 1st thing that came into her hands—a big fat Harrison and threw it straight at him.
He dodged and threw a pillow at her. She caught it precariously and almost lost her balance trying to hold on to it.

“AWWWW!!”

Too late. She hadn’t seen him come behind her. She was too busy laughing that silently uproarious laugher of hers.

***

“Now how did that feel?” he asked her grinning.
She tried hard to feign anger and gingerly checked her lips.
“It hurts” she whined
“Am sure it does” he laughed, and leaned over and kissed her again. Tenderly this time.

“Not so fast” she said giggling.

It was his turn now to rub his lip. She had bit him.

He pulled her closer to him and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her body fit into his, felt her fingers on his chest, felt her damp lips press onto his neck. She sighed.

“When’s the train?” she asked, carefully avoiding his eyes.
He stroked her hair gently. “ In exactly 3 hours my love.”
“Do I have to go? Can’t I stay? Just one more day?”
“You know you cant dear. Nor can I. We need to go back.”

She hugged him closer still. “ I don’t want to go.”
“ Nor do I love. It’s been a wonderful weekend. But you know we can’t afford to stay longer. You have to attend classes. And I need to work overtime to make up for this leave.”

He kissed her head, the part that was visible under his arms. She had snuggled in so much that he could only feel her, and not see.

“I’d better get ready then. The station is quite far away….”

He watched her as she lifted herself from the bed and went into the bathroom. He leaned over to smell that side of the bed that she had slept in. It still smelt of her perfume. The one she wore whenever they met.

She turned on the shower.

He sighed. He knew she was crying now.

“Can I come in” he knocked on the bathroom door.
“ No. Am almost done. Am coming out.”

***

She was wearing the sari that he had gotten her from his first salary. He held her hand till the distant chugging of the train could be heard.

The train slid slowly out of the station. And he walked back to the auto that awaited him.

over a smoke

She never asked him anything. He never told her when he would come. But she always knew. It was not as if he came frequently. he sometimes never came. And when he did, it was always sudden—without notice. And yet, she knew. There would be no one visiting her then. She always made sure no one else came.

He knew nothing about her. He never asked.

It was not like she took care to welcome him. She never did anything special. She was the same. Always… to everyone. But he was different still. In ways she couldn’t explain. And so the only real effort she put in was to stack four packets of cigarettes. She knew he liked smoking. But she also knew he never smoked unless it was with her. It was something she had gathered from the way he always choked and coughed on the first cigarette he smoked with her.

There was a dim orange light in the room. She sat on the windowsill. Smoking. The red eye of the cigarette blended with the orange in the room. The smoke curled up over her head. Her hair soaked it up. The smokey curls hidden in her black curls. She played with a loose strand of hair which came up to her chin. He would be here any moment. She sensed it.

The freshly lit cigarette joined a pile of butts in the ashtray.

He came in. she acknowledged him by shifting her position from the window sill to the cane chair near the bed. He kept his small suitcase behind the door and joined her. He never looked at her. She always studied him.

She knew he had a family somewhere. She knew it by stitches that had mended a tear in his vest. She knew it in the way his eyes always watered after everything. She sensed it in the way he kept running his fingers over his fingers searching for an invisible ring. She knew he was in love with his wife. And this made her proud, if a woman like her could ever be, that he still came.

She lit another cigarette. She blew the smoke on to his face. He merely shrugged. She never waited for him to make the first move. It was always her—never him. She smiled inside. It was always this way. It was never different. She stood up and slipped off her cotton dress and wore her nakedness with arrogance. He looked up and took in her nudity. He was always careful not to look into her eyes. He always stared beyond her. Never inside. He never searched her. He just looked. She arranged herself on the bed. He joined her.

It was well into the night when he slipped out of the bed and sat on the chair. He coughed over the first cigarette. She joined him. She rested her bare legs on his thighs. He never pushed them away. Did not make any sign of like or dislike. He sat smoking. The packets emptied steadily. One after the other. She waited for the last cigarette he always left for her.

He lighted it and kept it on the table. She picked it up and balanced it between her fingers.

He dressed up. And pushed a wad of notes under the pillow. Picked up his suitcase and went to the door.

His hands rested on the knob a little more than usual. He turned back. She started.

“She died last week.”

The door closed. She stood staring at the door.

The cigarette had fallen down and was steadily scorching the old wooden floor.

in darkness and in light

I opened my eyes to white. White walls, white sheets, white everywhere. There was a faint beep- beep somewhere in the room. I couldn’t see what it was that made the noise. My eyes struggled to keep open.

Blackness.

There was a little girl running behind her grandfather, clutching a plastic bag behind her. Every time the bag filled up with air, the girl whooped in joy and the grandfather laughed at her, his completely white hair glistening in the sun…

There was that little girl again, rocking her baby sister to sleep, singing like she had seen her mother do. She prised open the baby’s eyes, to see if she had properly slept. The baby slept on, and girl sighed in exasperation! When would she grow up?

My eyes opened again. The vision seemed a little blurred than before. There were dark patches around my eyes. I couldn’t understand why the beeing wouldn’t stop. It was slightly irritating and was adding to the heavy throbbing at the back of my head.

Blackness again.

There was that little girl again. She looked older now. She was sitting with her father, brows knitted together as they when her father clicked his tongue and put his bishop on the black square and said- “check mate!”

Why doesn’t the throbbing stop? It’s getting worse by the minute. And the beeping has become an impatient one now. Beeping faster and louder than before. If I could just get some sleep.

The little girl has grown up. She is lying on her back on the terrace, her mother with her. They enjoy watching the clouds, except that they don’t get much time to do it together. And so this moment is special. The girl lies back in contentment and asks her mother to sing. A soft song fills the air and the girl smiles in abandon.

The white room is not so white anymore. I lift my hands to massage my head, only that I can’t lift them. They feel like rocks. I try moving my fingers- they feel like boulders. I panic. The beeping is getting on my nerves.

The grandmother is making pickles so that the girl can take it with her when she goes back to the hostel. The girl asks her grandmother to teach her to make pickles. Her grandmother explains the art of making pickles in her gentle voice, while the girl looks on fascinated.

I see people all around me. Curiously, all the people are white too. Only their eyes are black. Even their hair is white. I wonder why. I realise they are all wearing bandanas. But I’ve never seen men wear bandanas before. I try to recollect if I’ve seen men wearing bandanas before. But thinking makes my head pound harder still. I want to scream. But I find I cant. I am wearing some kind of a mask over my mouth. There are tubes poking my nostrils. Now this is ridiculous. I don’t know why I am dressed in this peculiar fashion. I am angry, but I find I don’t have the energy to even be angry.

There is a boy waving to the girl. His dimples wink at her as he smiles. She runs into his arms and hugs him tight. They walk together along the beach, hand in hand, the girl jumping in glee whenever the waves tickled her feet. He holds her by the waist and pulls her closer to him and kisses her on her soft lips. The sun sets behind them, giving them their moment of togetherness

I now feel a shooting pain down my legs. There are tubes there too. The number of people seems to have increased. I black out.

It’s the girl’s wedding. She is standing with the boy, smiling and laughing. Sometimes her husband gently brushes his fingers over hers. She blushes while he grins wickedly.

There is a small home with lots of trees around and a small garden. The inside is just how a home should look. Its neat—in a very untidy sort of way. There are photographs all along the wall. Of him, of her, and of him and her. There are books everywhere, papers flying about. A coffee mug stands alone on the table near the couch. The boy and girl are sleeping on the couch, cuddled together in sleep.

The girl is running around packing her bags. Her husband keeps dumping things in the bag and she takes them out again, and puts it the way she wants it to. They jump into the car finally. She is laughing away to glory in the way she always does. The boy laughs and leans over to stop her laughter by kissing her full on her mouth.

The white walls stare back at me. I am drenched in sweat. I feel myself being transferred to a bed, which is rolled down a long corridor. I want to cry.

I remember the crash. The way the truck hit our car. The way both of us was thrown off. I remember him trying to reach for my hand. I remember someone lifting me into a van. I remember not seeing him beside me. I remember the doctor telling the nurse about how he could not be saved. I remember hearing someone tell someone else as to how difficult my condition was, and how they were trying hard to keep me alive.

I don’t want to live…not like this. When I know the best part of me will not be with me anymore. Why don’t these people in white understand…I don’t want to live. You are all fighting a losing battle to keep me alive.

My eyes cant see anymore. But I see the little girl running. I see her growing up into a woman. I see her long hair flying in the wind. I hear the sound of her laughter. I see the boy waiting for her…his arms stretched wide….

I know you’ll be waiting for me outside this world. Am coming to you my love, my life here was perfect because of you and the love we shared. And so am coming to you, to be loved by you—once again.

My eyes close—coloured darkness.

Sappho Fragments

1.
I did not wish for the
Scents of Arabia, nor
The ethereal diamonds did I desire
But all at once
It did blossom
My tender hopes of desire
And in his gentle love, it took delight

2.
Days I have had, both bitter
And sweet, more there will be of such.
Life! See and know this

3.
When cries were heard
In the moonlight
Calm, when nature voiced
Its voiceless reproach
Walked in the delicate
Virgin Artemis
Of the hunt and the Moon.



p.s these are not entirely my works. as part of my modernist poetry course at college, we were given sappho fragments to complete. this is my attempt at completing them. the words in blue are the fragments and the rest is my creation