© Suriyakantha CAC (Pvt. Ltd)

A programme open to artists, writers and creatives from all backgrounds, within a three-hundred-year-old heritage residence.

This summer, we are launching a new creative residency programme at Suriyakantha.

Open to artists, writers and creatives from all backgrounds, this programme allows one person engaged in a creative practice — literature, visual arts, research, photography, film, music or any other discipline — to stay for a minimum of one week in our three-hundred-year-old heritage residence, at a preferential rate.

During their stay, the resident — who may be accompanied by one guest — has a private space and access to the house's emblematic areas: the sitting room, the libraries, the verandahs, the galleries, the inner courtyard and the garden. These are all spaces where the calm, the beauty of the setting and the memory of Suriyakantha offer particularly fertile ground for creation.

Last May, we had the pleasure of hosting French regional historian and writer Guilhem Beugnon. At the request of Thema Collection, owner of Mountbatten Bungalow in Kandy, among other properties, the writer used his few weeks at Suriyakantha to carry out iconographic research into Lord Mountbatten's stay in Kandy.

Guilhem Beugnon also brought together, under our roof, a body of personal writing deeply marked by this place of such particular charm.

Here, as a preview, we offer an excerpt from a text written at Suriyakantha, steeped in the singular atmosphere of our three-hundred-year-old heritage residence.

— Rates and information: info@suriyakantha.org or WhatsApp (messages only) +94 71 362 3110

Tropical Liturgy

by Guilhem Begunon - May 2026

Guilhem Beugnon at Suriyakantha, Kandy, during his literary residency — May 2026 © Suriyakantha CAC (Pvt. Ltd)

—

6 o'clock.

The garden wakes to the melancholy, repetitive call of the Asian koel, the busy chatter of the common myna, the sudden uproar of parakeets crossing through the coconut palms. Small shrill cries, nervous and insistent — those of the palm squirrel, which I long mistook for birdsong — chase from tree to tree. Quiet now, sounds of the night: frogs and toads, insects and geckos, owls, the neighbourhood's stray dogs, that ceaseless blend of chirring, rustled leaves and unseen cries. Make way for a new soundscape, soon joined by the CTB buses and the neighbour's sound system, which fills, every morning, the silence left by her children and husband heading off. In the distance, I'll make out strains of Lambada and the French cancan.

My first acts of the day are to switch on the water heater, then the pump for the tank on the upper terrace: a double, secret mechanism whose exact workings remain a mystery to me. Yet it alone seems able to guarantee a hot, plentiful shower.

Then comes the hour of opening — the openings — onto the abundant garden. Every window, every French door, has four or eight brass latches to unlock each morning and lock again at nightfall. I set about it in a fixed order, so as not to forget any, turning the chore into something close to a Buddhist ritual.

Bedroom: 3 windows, one French door, 28 clicks,
West library: 8 clicks, quickly dealt with,
Entrance hall: 20 clicks, and the house opens onto the terrace, where I'm greeted in turn by the wriggling welcome of Kaloo and Hadhaya, the house's two dogs, and the smile of Bandula, the lively night watchman. He has just finished his ritual of offerings and prayers before the ebony Buddha; a scent of incense and jasmine flowers hangs in the air,
East library: only 4 clicks, the window doesn't open,
Offices: 16 clicks, and already Hadhaya has curled up on the wool rug, perfectly content,
Dining room opening onto the inner courtyard: 48 clicks; the ritual gathers momentum,
Exhibition room, building to a crescendo: 60 clicks,
Kitchen and scullery, the apotheosis of a concert of tropical ironwork: 64 clicks.

Far from wearing me out, this patient morning unlocking, repeated 248 times, gently anchors me in the rhythm of the walauwa, without once making me miss European automation.

Facing the rows of switches, I now hesitate as I turn off the lights of the night and turn on those of the day — more discreet, almost symbolic. Darkness retreats through the vast house without ever quite leaving it.

Then comes the hot shower, a spluttering luxury amid the tropical humidity, followed by a frugal breakfast. Yesterday, the caretaker of Lankatilaka temple had me admire a painting of a standing Ganesh, a symbol of active protection and dynamic prosperity.

"Standing, and rather portly," I remarked.

"Like you," he replied without hesitation — and rightly so.

This morning, at breakfast, I did not drizzle my porridge with a thick layer of kithul treacle... Between asceticism and indulgence, one must find the Middle Way.

The day can now begin, under the sign of loving-kindness:
may it extend to the whole world,
above, below and all around,
without obstacle, without hatred, without enmity.

© 2026 Guilhem Begunon