Issue-5

NINE
STAR GAZETTE MAGAZINE ISSUE-5
CLOUD
Gazette Magziune
Star

CONTENT
Carry You
by Ananya Thakur
In Search of the Lambs
by Divyank Jain
Art - Helmi
by Suvra Mishra
Illustrations from a
Small Island by Zhigang
Ode to Rumination
by Chris Mardiroussian
Art by Simran Kaur
Poem by Ramyanee
Kashyap
TINY THOUGHTS
4
5
10
11
14
18
20
22

Reading is
Dreaming with
Open Eyes

Carry You
Ananya Thakur
Wherever I may end up
being
On Hawaiian sand
Or in the
deep blue Norwegian sea
Or the icy Swiss summits
Wherever it is that I go,
I hope through my eyes
You too can see
The vast expanse
Of the sky, land & sea.
I’ll carry you there
With me.
THE AUTHOR
Ananya Thakur (she/her) is a high school student from the Middle East.
She recently picked up writing as a form of self-expression in a time of
uncertainty and fear. Her work has been published/is forthcoming at The
Trouvaille Review, the Graveyard Zine, the Hearth Magazine and more.

In Search of the Lambs
Divyank Jain.
THE AUTHOR
Divyank Jain, a 26-year-old writer currently residing in Udaipur, India.
Although a teacher by profession, he has always been passionate about
writing and literature. Some of his short stories appeared in anthologies
and magazines such as Notions of Living, Notions of Healing, Chariots of
Rebellion, Radiate Lit. Journal, Litstreamagazine, Activemuse, Together
Magazine etc.
Almost all the villagers had gone. I watched the last of them crossing the narrow
wooden bridge with bags on their shoulders, and gathering around down there
where we had blocked the main road before the sunrise. Beyond the sloping farms,
the stream and the steep bank of the river, stood an army truck at the edge of the
road next to the trench, with a few soldiers helping the old women climbing in as
well as bundling their belongings to thrust in the truck. Then, the overloaded truck
had gone, leaving the rest of the crowd to wait and hope. After a while, another
truck arrived and the people rushed into it frantically. As soon as this truck too
disappeared in the expanding shadows of the southern mountains, the first one
had returned bringing a dim hint of a smile on the winter beaten faces of the rest
of the people.

This exhausting cycle had been running continuously for seven hours in front of our
eyes at the foothills of the north-western valley of Kashmir.
After we had vacated villages yesterday, we were informed about the terror attack
that occurred here last night. A big failure of our intelligence. We had ordered that
the entire village should have been vacated in a single day. So, we started off
early and it took the whole day as the village was inhabited deep in the valley.
Being a newly appointed commanding officer of the patrolling unit, I had to keep
an eye on every activity until all of them, the villagers, had been
safely transported elsewhere. That was all. However, in the bone-shattering winter
of January, even standing there still wasn't an easy task. All-day, the sun was
showering its solace over us but it was now exhausted and wanted to rest behind
the white mountains. With rifles in our hand, we were no more than statues carved
out of the Himalayan rocks with some snowflakes resting on our shoulders and we
were now tired.
After the truck had gone, I smiled at one of the officers standing by me. We proudly
completed the task, without the cost of a single life. It was pleasant to see that
there were no more of them waiting in front of our eyes, and right then I, with my
soldiers, had been sent back to the abandoned village for the final probe.
Keeping the pointy end of the rifle in front of our nose, we crawled along a rugged
stone wall, hiding. In many dark places in the village might have been bombs
hidden underneath and possibly a few armed adults could be lurking here and
there as well since it was normal for the young adults of this region to be
conspiring with terrorist organizations and act out with double standards.
Therefore, being on guard was necessary for all the circumstances. Carefully, we
kept moving further, beyond the stream up the hill.
The deeper we went the darker it became. The snowy wind now started to grasp
our throats. The steam came out of my mouth as I gasped while climbing uphill. The
village looked as if it had lost its soul. Old and dull, the houses with cracked clay
walls were forced to abandon their belongingness.

I felt something crack inside of me as well when I heard dry leaves rasping on the
harsh ground and the wooden doors of those houses swung back and forth with
the wind, exposing the interior walls, dead and cold. Apparently, many villagers
had left their goats and hens behind which were bleating and clucking at our
presence, perhaps trying to wake up the dead too.
It took one hour to search out half the village, to look behind every rock and wall,
and to shake up the old dead bodies which were killed by no one and lied there
peacefully, then we finally came to the ravaged part of the village where the blast
took place last night. On the hilltop, it was an old seminary painted in dark green,
where they hid the bomb. Although only a wreck now, on the collapsed walls of it
were some Urdu letters standing upright. Too much about the god was
written on these broken walls, and to be true, we were scared as hell as we walked
on the debris. We turned the rubble and shook up each body we found down there.
Their blood was mixed up and turned into the dried stains. Around a hundred
villagers were killed here last night and more of the bodies might have been buried
deep under the holy debris.
By walking on it, and perhaps on their bodies, we've reached the last stone wall of
the village that must have failed to guard it. Downhill, on the other side of it too
were a few houses. Trying not to look back, I said, "We cannot leave that part." I
was afraid and it was getting cold.
I saw through the rifle-scope and found an old man in a silvery-grey phiran, sitting
against the wall of the cottage, staring at the purple sky with his eyes closed, and
he seemed to be talking with someone. We decided to go to him, separately. I sent
a soldier to the right, two to the left, and I alone moved forward. Although he was
too old to be any danger to us, we planned to cluster him around.
The old man remained unconcerned until we reached him. When the tip of my gun
collided to the left of his neck, he opened his eyes that looked tired, and he smiled.
His face, covered with old chickenpox marks, looked red and terrible. I hinted to
the soldiers to search out all around the cottage, they went and came back to me,
alright.

"Who are you?"; I asked him.
"You are in my house, you tell me who you are?"
"You know who I am, can't you see this?" I was all alert.
"No," the old man said, "I can't see anything in the dark."
"It's not fully dark yet, but it will be in a short while. Are you a villager or one of
them?"
"I was an Imam here."
"A lot of people died in the seminary last night, I wonder how did an Imam survive?"
The grip of my finger tightened on the trigger as I pushed myself ahead. He held his
old dusty hands up in the air while my companions searched in his pockets of
phiran and in his underclothes.
"It was simple," he said calmly when the soldiers were done on him. "I was out of it.
I was with my lambs."
"Your lambs seem lucky. But you must be gone from here by now. Trucks are
transporting your
people down to the army camp. Why were you not with them, the other villagers?"
"I was waiting," he said thoughtfully.
"For?"
"The sun's down and my lambs have not returned yet."
"Do they always come back on time?"
"Yes, they do!" The old eyes staring at the sky seemed confident.
"If you know which direction your lambs had gone to, you can find them later."
"I don't know", he said. "They broke the chains somehow and ran away right before
it happened. Animals always have presentiments, but they do know the way back.
They will be here and find no one if I am gone with you, and this will surely scare
them away. I cannot come with you. I must stay. I must wait."
The old, light brown eyes looked into mine when the cool breeze crossed our
bodies, leaving me to shiver. I watched the grey-looking part beyond the hills;
under the stars, there were mountains massive, tall, and the edges of them were
sharp and creamy against the rising moon. A dreamy-looking northern country that
was, in many ways, very different from the entire nation. Although it was beautiful,

you never want to look into the north-western direction of it. It always makes
you feel cold. So, you learn to look at it only with the burning anger in your eyes.
"They better not come here", I said to the old man, not looking at him. :There is
nothing left for them. Try to get up. We'll take you down there. It's almost dark and
you cannot see in the dark, right?"
"But they can see in the dark. I raised them here. They cannot forget the way to
their home. But I am afraid..."
"Of what?"
"What if they have gone to the other side? They have never been taught to
recognize the difference."
"Oh," I raised brows. ";Then I must say, either your lambs have been killed or if not
and are fine, they'll come back here."
"Then, can I really come here to find them later?" he asked. "Can you promise me?"
I dared not to say anything. I didn't want to discuss it anymore. It wasn't a good
place and a good
time to talk about the lost lambs. "Listen!" I said, "if you don't get up, we have to
carry you."
The old man laughed and shook his head sluggishly. He tried to get up, then the
soldiers helped him to be stable. But, the long-lasting wait for the lambs made his
knees tremble and he fell to the ground.
I handed over my gun to one of my companions. Then, wrapping my left arm
around the old man's stiff back, I lifted him with the right over on my shoulder
before we began to walk down the hill. My companions with rifles ready to shoot
guarded us against all the sides until we left the bridge behind. Even the gentle
burble of the cool water flowing below it was haunting me.
There was a truck standing down there facing to the south, and in the beams of its
headlights, a tall, Sikh soldier was waving both his hands to us and only seeing this
warmed us enough to cover the remaining distance. My companions and I were
desperate to go back to the camp. Our duty was done, we had found what we
were looking for; but the old eyes of the man lying over my shoulders were still
looking back at the village, in search of the lambs.

Art - Helmi
Suvra Mishra
This painting here depicts the beauty of a person even at their worst condition. The
lady here is smiling even when there is evident hurt in her eyes.

Illustrations from A Small Island
Zhigang
FROM THE ARTIST
My final project is to make a zine to depict my unique perception of
my observation, which happened in London and Bournemouth. They
are all based on my real experiences and feelings. I hope my
audience can have a resonate with me after watching my work.
Something might be common but it is a special view for me to
explore in life.

zhigangart@gmail.com
www.zhigangart.com
https://www.instagram.com/z_zhigang/

Ode to Rumination
Chris Mardiroussian
I was found motionless,
without a flinch nor flicker,
marinating from
sunrise to sunset,
eyes wide shut
like two Siamese,
crippling clams
enclosing pale, putrid couplets
a chalk-scented crusted
cloak cocoons me
as I soak in bed
buried beneath the ashes
of the once retreating
rabies.
Advised by
hackneyed hallucinogens
every morning
and every night
whispering in the eclectic ear:
Seek solace,
Don’t rot like a carcass,
Seek solace,
Don’t drink the tap water.

To its once free functioning form,
the brain twitched with promise
and with that,
I said, “no more.”
I shuffled back and forth,
until the cocoon loosened,
Alas! breaking free
with what little nerves
of strength and spirit.
I sought out a gigolo,
he spoke of a familiar place,
a fluorescent forest,
rivers and ponds within,
and treacherous paths,
designed to test
the harmonious vitality
of the mind and body
all which I must pass
to reach the mountain
I must climb
for the tip-top peak contains
the once retreating peccadilloes.
I step forth,
into the fickle forest,
with nothing but
a backpack,
few bottles of water,
and a brittle blanket
for the journey.

Yet, days and days
of trampling through
the fickle, fluorescent forest
bathing in rivers floating
distorted, precarious
thousand-yard glare into
the lukewarm foamy clouds
hopping from boulder to boulder
body vibrating with fear of falling
into the mouths of snakes and bears
adrenaline surging through me
like electricity
laying under the trees of hope
at night, star gazing like an astronomer
before retiring,
then awakening to the tongue
of the sun,
Alas! I stand in front of the mountain
titling my head towards the trope
digesting how far
yet close I am.
Sunrise by sunset,
sunset by sunrise,
climb and climb
while knees quake
like birthday cakes
while thighs burn
like the fiery flames of
Grandmother’s stove oven.

Alas!
eyes glaze
mother girth
and flying nerds
across frothy heavens,
blink once,
blink twice,
sweat sinking
from eyelids
like tree sap,
it swelled,
And flinched,
Swelled,
And flinched.

Art - Flats' Stray Cats
Simran Kaur

FROM THE ARTIST
My final project is to make a zine to depict my unique perception of
my observation, which happened in London and Bournemouth. They
are all based on my real experiences and feelings. I hope my
audience can have a resonate with me after watching my work.
Something might be common but it is a special view for me to
explore in life.
Flats' Stray Cats is a traditional doodle illustration that showcases
Simran's love for the stray cats living around the flats.
Simran Kaur always loved cats but she never had one, yet she sees the
stray cats around her flat as her cats. Unfortunately, animals are not
allowed in the flats therefore Simran and her neighbours take care of
the four stray cats by feeding, cleaning and cuddling them.
Simran did also name each cat: Vanity, Shadow, Choco and Garfield.
The illustration showcases their personalities and also some of the
things that usually happens. Simran hopes someone will adopt the cats
as even if she and the neighbours take good care of them she believes
that they would be happier living in someone's house rather than the
dangerous streets of London.

Poem by
Ramyanee Kashyap
I have a memory
A faint image of the bygone days
Or perhaps, an idea
For it is too feeble...
Too feeble to be a part of something real-
Like pastries muddling down
Into disoriented fluffs of pink cotton balls,
And the soft fibres of cotton gradually disappearing,
Dissolving,
Into the infinity of an ashen haze.
I have a memory of being good
Good at something, something of significance...
Specifications of which, now-
Are engulfed, lost,
In my languid, endless cinema
Playing in a skullful void--
Or rather a feeling that brushes on my skin…
Like the most preternatural sensation.
Up my fingertips...
Along the bones of my forearm...
Disturbing the tranquil alignment of my body hairs
Like a rebel child rushing through the cosiest carpet fur.
I have a memory
And I used to be good at something-
But I was a wild child
Raging to conquer the unclaimed sugar candies
So many colours!

So many flavours!
And so many challenges.
And traps.
With nasty trickeries.
A viscous river full of terrible unworldly animals-
One that I must swim alone…
For I have left my sweet mother at home
Gazing at one of my works-
My work of something I was really good at.
I have a memory
A memory not so frail
Neither belonging to the olden days.
A rather biting-, sour sensation
In my mouth
From eating a sugar candy from the far side of the devil river
, After a battle of what felt like a lifetime
With those terrible unearthly beasts from mars.
I have a memory
A memory of something I was great at.
My heart yearns to grab a bite...
Indulge for a good, sequestered hour.
But my enervated nerves
cannot quite pick up the specifications
And mother, too distant to lend a helping hand.

Gazette Magziune
Star