With him I shared my tennis racket,

My joy and sorrows and my leather jacket

He was the one I found standing ground

When there was no one around

He met she and I was told

They were precious to me, more than gold!

And then I saw them fall apart,

His punching bag and his speaking tree

His last air-bender that was me

I lied; I tried and played old pranks

I dated beauties and I dated cranks

There was someone to advice

Always around to help me rise

For all I know, he would never read

But he kept his wisdom by the bead

Between us was this stronger thread

Born apart, together bred

Before we knew it, came the days

We had to pick our different ways

I hoped and prayed that our paths would cross

We were hung on a bit of floss

…and it all seemed to end

Years later he emerged,

Looking different was the trend

I looked through him and saw his heart

And yet still, he was my friend

–              By Abhinandan Chatterjee


He was thinking of a way till the hay turn gray,

Sitting all day and not a wise word to say.

He would have his moments

Sorrow and fun, he was just like others

But he would never run

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle


As he grew he did meet a few,

The feeling was indeed – new.

Time went by as they flew apart

It was beer soon and not lemon tart

He dunked and drank

Occasionally, pulled a prank

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle


The tanks galore, he was sent ashore

Fighting for his people, he still felt alone

There were many a priests and motifs profound

He longed soon for his 6 feet of ground

Knowing not what he had in store

He moved on to inspire a dozen

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle


A breeze so sweet and a woman came by,

Back again he was on a high

Life’s testimony was not yet over

He had found his four leaf clover

That was when he was on a roll

Every evening he would go for a stroll

He knew some souls who he met very often

Yet he had, no friends to fiddle


That was the day, yesterday,

Now he is no one new

There are still people

So does he say?

He eyes seem waiting, till this day

Yet he has, no friends to fiddle.


–              By Abhinandan Chatterjee