Varkala had been waiting for us for almost two years.

Every time I planned to take the family there, something happened. The trip got cancelled, the destination changed, or life simply came in between.

This long weekend was no different.

12 September 2026 — Varkala wasn’t the plan

With the Ganesh Chaturthi long weekend, I originally planned Thrissur. We would stay at my friend’s place and cover Thrissur, Guruvayur, Cherai Beach and a few places around.

Then my friend’s plans changed at the last minute. So did ours.

Varkala.

A destination that had survived almost two years of cancelled plans suddenly became our destination with hardly any planning. And strangely, that probably made the trip better.

Madurai to Varkala

On Saturday, 12 September, the four of us left home around 8 AM.

The long-weekend crowd hit us immediately. Temple City, where we stopped for breakfast, was packed. Hotels everywhere seemed full, breakfast itself became an exercise, but eventually we managed.

After that came a drive that was new to me. I had been to Tenkasi a few times, but hadn’t driven this particular route to Kerala before. So it was Google Maps, cautious driving and casual conversations with my wife while the kilometres disappeared.

By afternoon, we were in Varkala.

Back after sixteen years

This wasn’t my first Varkala trip. I first visited in 2010 and was completely sold on the place. I always thought I would return soon.

“Soon” took 16 years.

A lot had changed. The crowds were bigger. B&Bs, homestays and resorts had multiplied. Varkala was certainly busier than the place stored in my memory.

But the cliff, the sea and that unmistakable Varkala vibe were still there.

For my wife and kids, everything was new. For me, it felt like reopening an old bookmark.

48 hours around water

The kids quickly established the theme for the holiday: water.

If they weren’t at the beach, they were in the swimming pool at Paddle Cult. If they weren’t in the pool, they wanted to go back to the sea.

Our first evening was simple—playing at the beach followed by dinner at Darjeeling Cafe. There was live music, pizza for the kids and a lovely atmosphere.

After the long drive, everyone else was exhausted. I somehow still caught the vibe.

13 September 2026 — The best part wasn’t at the beach

Sunday’s mangrove boat trip became the highlight.

We sailed through the backwaters and narrow mangrove tunnels. Somewhere along the way, the children appointed themselves the official photographers of the trip.

There was even a drone shoot in the middle of the backwaters.

We stopped for refreshments—tender coconut water and fresh juice sold from a boat—and then came the part the kids were waiting for.

Jumping into the backwaters for a swim.

From that point, nobody was interested in getting out of the water.

It was one of those outings where nothing extraordinary needs to happen. Everybody is simply enjoying themselves at the same time. That itself becomes the memory.

Rice meals, cliffs and no timetable

Lunch was at Hotel Suprabhatham, an old vegetarian hotel in Varkala that had been recommended to us. We were lucky enough to get Kerala rice meals.

All four of us enjoyed it. And there was an unexpected holiday achievement too—despite eating outside throughout the trip, none of us had that usual heavy, indigestion feeling.

The rest of Varkala was deliberately unambitious.

Cliff cafés. Shopping. Beach views. Photographs. Walking around. Sitting somewhere because we liked the view.

The cliff strip was absolutely vibing.

Sometimes the best itinerary is not having much of one.

14 September 2026 — “I don’t want to go home.”

By Monday morning, when it was time to leave, my son had a serious objection.

He didn’t want to come home.

For almost 48 hours, the kids had moved between the sea, backwaters and swimming pool. Even when we were at Paddle Cult, getting them away from the pool was a task.

Our stay there also worked perfectly for us—comfortable, convenient and nothing to complain about.

We left Varkala around noon. On the return journey, my wife squeezed in some roadside terracotta shopping. We stopped at Hotel Hariharan in Shenkottai for lunch and later at Temple City Alampatti for snacks and coffee before finally reaching Madurai.

The holiday was over.

Perhaps that’s what a good vacation is

The kids called it their best vacation.

My wife said she finally slept well and managed to unwind from work.

And I returned to one of my favourite places after sixteen years.

No elaborate sightseeing checklist. No race to cover ten tourist attractions. No great plan, actually—the original destination wasn’t even Varkala.

Just four of us, a long drive, a cliff, cafés, the sea, mangroves, swimming, good food and two children who didn’t want the holiday to end.

Sometimes that’s enough to know a vacation worked.

Eighteen years is a long time to carry a case you always believed should never have existed.

People change in eighteen years. Businesses rise and fall. Children are born and grow up. Friendships disappear. Priorities change.

But somewhere in the background of my life, one thing stubbornly remained.

A criminal case.

It began with my then business partner and allegations that I maintained were false from the very beginning. What followed was something I never imagined would consume almost two decades of my life.

I could have compromised early.

I could have told myself, Why fight? Finish it somehow and move on.

But something inside me refused.

The Weight of an Allegation

A case isn’t merely a case number.

When your name is accused of something you know you didn’t do, it travels with you.

There is anger. There is humiliation. There are questions from people. There are moments when you wonder whether truth actually matters when somebody else has the machinery to keep an allegation alive.

And then there is the waiting.

One year became five.

Five became ten.

Ten became fifteen.

Eventually, I stopped counting.

Life had to continue. I built businesses. I failed at things. I succeeded at others. I became a husband and a father. I fought completely different battles.

Yet this unfinished chapter remained somewhere behind me.

What 18 Years Taught Me

The younger version of me wanted to win.

The older version of me wanted the truth to survive long enough to be tested.

That difference probably explains how these eighteen years changed me.

I learnt that courage isn’t always dramatic.

Sometimes courage is simply showing up again.

And again.

And again.

Even when nothing appears to be moving.

Perseverance isn’t believing that tomorrow everything will magically become better. It is having the stomach to accept that tomorrow may look exactly like today—and still refusing to surrender.

There were moments of anger.

There were moments of exhaustion.

But there was always one belief:

If an allegation is true, there must ultimately be something underneath it that can withstand scrutiny.

So I waited for that scrutiny.

Then Something Changed

After all those years, the questions became very simple.

Where were the supporting documents?

Where was the basic material necessary to substantiate what had been alleged?

For around eighteen months, as these questions persisted, the answers did not materialise.

And during the final hearings, the scrutiny became harder.

Suddenly an eighteen-year-old battle was approaching something I had almost forgotten how to imagine:

an ending.

Eventually, my former partner agreed to a compromise and the case was closed.

Just like that.

A battle that had followed me through a substantial portion of my adult life ended in a few final sittings.

Victory Didn’t Feel Like I Imagined

I always imagined that if this day came, I would celebrate loudly.

Perhaps call everyone who knew the story.

Perhaps remind people what had been said about me.

Perhaps tell the world:

“I told you so.”

Strangely, when it finally happened, what I felt most wasn’t excitement.

It was relief.

A very deep, quiet relief.

Because after eighteen years, I realised that victory wasn’t watching another person lose.

Victory was discovering that I had not allowed the fight to turn me into the person I was fighting.

They could give me a case.

They could make me appear repeatedly.

They could consume my time.

They could test my patience.

But they couldn’t make me accept something I believed was untrue simply because fighting it was inconvenient.

Justice Delayed

People often repeat the phrase:

Justice delayed is justice denied.

After eighteen years, I understand why.

The process itself can become punishment.

No final outcome can return the time, anxiety or energy consumed along the way.

But there is another side to it.

Sometimes justice is delayed…

and yet truth simply refuses to die.

That is what I choose to take from these eighteen years.

And One Last Thought…

To the former partner who began this battle with intentions I will leave history to judge:

Eighteen years was a very long wait.

To those in the system who may have expected allegations to survive without the supporting material eventually being demanded:

Eighteen years was apparently still not long enough.

Because ultimately, somebody asked the simplest questions.

Where is the evidence?

And sometimes the most satisfying ending doesn’t require revenge, anger or even celebration.

It requires only a question that should perhaps have been asked much earlier.

The case is closed.

My life isn’t.

And after eighteen years, I finally get to walk forward without looking over my shoulder.

Some victories don’t need noise.

The silence after eighteen years is loud enough.

I was thinking about some of my closest friends recently.

There was a time when we didn’t need a reason to call each other.

We knew what was happening in each other’s lives. We met regularly. Conversations could go on endlessly. And underneath all of that was a reassuring feeling:

If I needed them, they were there. And if they needed me, I was there.

Even ten years ago, many of us were still very much in touch.

Then something quietly changed.

Nobody Walked Away

There was no fight. No misunderstanding. Nobody decided that the friendship wasn’t important anymore.

We simply became busy living our lives.

Many of us had our children around the same period. First one, then the second.

Suddenly, weekends weren’t really ours.

School. Homework. Classes. Birthdays. Doctor visits. Family commitments. Careers. EMIs. Ageing parents. A hundred small responsibilities that somehow consume an entire day.

I can’t complain that my friends stopped calling.

I stopped calling too.

And somewhere along the way, people I once spoke to almost every day became people I might speak to once in a few months.

Meetings became rarer.

Sometimes a friend visits after a long time and we manage to meet — but only for 20 minutes before one of us has to rush back to another responsibility.

And we say the inevitable:

“Machi, next time we’ll sit properly.”

Then another year disappears.

And That Made Me Wonder…

I am 46 now.

If the last ten years changed our friendships this much, what will another ten years do?

Today we have children to take care of.

Ten years from now, we will be in our mid-50s.

Some friends are already living in different countries. Our children will be older and building lives of their own. We will have changed too.

Will we become close again?

Or will we become people who occasionally exchange birthday wishes and remember how close we used to be?

For some reason, that thought made me a little uncomfortable.

Then I started looking at it differently.

Maybe Friendship Has Its Own Seasons

Perhaps this isn’t something going wrong.

Perhaps this is simply how friendship travels with us through life.

In our 20s:
We have time, so we are always together.

In our 30s:
Life starts changing, but we are still strongly connected.

In our 40s:
We still love our friends, but everyone is overwhelmed with responsibilities.

In our 50s:
The children begin needing us less, and maybe we start asking: Who are the people I really want around me?

In our 60s:
Perhaps shared history becomes more valuable than almost anything else.

And suddenly I realised something.

At 46, maybe I am not witnessing the end of these friendships.

Maybe we are simply in their quiet middle chapter.

There Is Something Special About an Old Friend

You can meet an old friend after two years and, within ten minutes, somehow become 25 again.

The same jokes return. The same teasing returns. Stories that your family has heard a hundred times suddenly become funny again.

Because an old friend remembers a version of you that almost nobody in your present life knows.

They knew you before the grey hair. Before the responsibilities. Before the job titles, businesses, successes, failures, children and EMIs.

They remember your stupid decisions.

And unfortunately, they usually remember them in remarkable detail.

That kind of friendship is difficult to recreate at 46.

Maybe We Don’t Need to Become Close Like Before

I don’t think the answer is trying to recreate our 20s.

We can’t. And perhaps we shouldn’t.

Friendship at this age may simply mean sending a message for no particular reason.

A fifteen-minute phone call. A coffee whenever someone happens to be in town. An old photograph suddenly appearing in the WhatsApp group with:

“Dei, look at us!”

Nothing profound needs to be said.

Sometimes the message underneath all of it is simply:

I’m still here.

Don’t Wait for “Someday”

There is only one thing that worries me now.

We keep assuming there will be a better time.

After this project. After the kids’ exams. Next time I come to India. Next year.

But five years can quietly become ten.

And perhaps friendships don’t always end because something bad happened.

Sometimes they simply fade because everybody kept postponing the next conversation.

So I think I’ll make a little more effort.

Not to bring the old days back.

But to make sure the people who mattered in those days are still somewhere in the days ahead.

Because maybe the best ending to these friendships isn’t:

“We remained as close as we were when we were 25.”

Maybe it is something much more realistic — and much more beautiful:

We went to different cities. Some of us went to different countries. We raised our children. We built our lives. We became busy. We grew older.

We didn’t speak as often as we once did.

But somehow, we never lost each other.