Sanctuary in Clouds: What residential library of healing in Nuwara Eliya meant to me

• A tribute to the book haven of writer Surya Vishwa in Hawaeliya in Nuwara Eliya

By Shalom Chesky 

When I think about the home in the mountains of Nuwara Eliya, the first thing that comes back to me is the feeling. Not a thought. Not a description. A feeling. The air was different there. Colder, sharper, cleaner. The kind of air that hits your lungs and makes you slow down, even if you came rushing in from somewhere else. I remember climbing up to the house and feeling like I was walking into a pocket of the world that the rest of the world had forgotten.

The silence there stays with me. It was not empty silence. It had weight. It felt alive. It came from the waterfall beneath the house, from the mist, from the trees, from the books and the art within, from the way everything settled into place, like it had been that way for centuries. Before I even walked inside, I already felt calmer. I already felt like whatever noise I had been carrying from my life did not belong there.

And then I entered the house.

I had never seen books like that. Not just the number of them, but the way they lived in the home. They were not lined up neatly like decorations. They were not arranged to impress anyone. They were part of the house the way stone is part of a mountain, the way they were obviously part of the soul of the writer who lived with them. They took up space like living beings. They created paths, corners, shadows, little pockets of colour. When I ran my hand along some of the shelves, I felt like I was touching a life story. I could feel years of searching, collecting, reading, thinking and healing in the way the books were placed. Not perfect, not rigid, but full of intention. The titles ranged from books about earth, heavens, of seekers, of ancient wisdom, of art and covering every genre one could think of. 

Nothing inside felt artificial. Sarees turned into curtains. Tables with mismatched cloths. Items reused again and again until they became something beautiful. It all felt like someone had lived with the earth, not on top of it. I remember sitting down with a warm drink and feeling something settle inside me. Something I did not know I needed. The house felt like it wanted you to shed whatever heaviness you were carrying. It was not a place for ego. It was a place where the world became quiet enough for you to hear yourself again.

There was a spiritual energy there. Not the kind you force. Not the kind you talk about. It came from the way the home existed in the world. High above everything else. Wrapped in fog. Filled with knowledge. Surrounded by nature that did not care about your plans or your stress or your noise. Being there made me think about the things I usually forget. It made me feel connected to something older and steadier. It was healing without trying to be.

And now, thinking about what is happening to that mountain, something in my chest tightens. Hearing about the landslides, the ground breaking open, houses leaking water from underneath, people being evacuated, the whole area declared unsafe, it feels unreal. I am also not surprised that this house is unaffected. That all the plants and the grass around remain undisturbed. 

I can picture the exact rooms. I can picture the shelves. I can picture the waterfall. I can picture the spot where I sat and felt completely at peace. And now all of it is shaking, shifting and threatening to slip. It is a strange kind of grief. Not the grief of losing a physical place, but the grief of watching a living memory get pulled back into the earth.

The books. That is what hits me the hardest. Thousands of them. A lifetime of reading and writing and learning. A private library unlike anything I have ever seen anywhere in the world. Books on healing. Books on nature. Books on everything that mattered to the person who built that life. Books that helped people. Books that held knowledge you cannot find easily again. The idea that they might be buried under soil and rock feels wrong. It feels like watching an entire chapter of the human world disappear.

It is hard to explain the value of that collection to someone who has not stood in that house. It was not simply impressive. It was meaningful. You could feel the years in it. You could feel the care. You could feel the dedication to truth, to the natural world, to the belief that knowledge can change people. Losing that library would not be losing objects. It would be losing something that holds power. Something that holds memory. Something that carries wisdom.

As raw as all of this feels, I also think about the energy of the place. The home did not get its power from the walls or the floor. It came from the intention behind it. The respect for the earth. The devotion to knowledge. The love of simplicity. The belief in healing. That cannot be taken away. Even if the house collapses. Even if the books are damaged. The spirit of the place is still there. It does not die just because the structure is threatened.

My hope is that the books can be saved. Not only for personal reasons, but because this is not just a private loss. This is something Sri Lanka needs. A reminder that knowledge matters. That memory matters. That nature matters. That we cannot ignore the world we live in and expect it to stay steady beneath our feet. A rescue of those books would not be a simple task. It would become a story. It would become an example of what a country chooses to protect. It would show that wisdom is worth effort.

If the house cannot be saved, then I hope the books can be carried into a new space. A new sanctuary that carries the same spirit. A space built on the same principles. Something simple. Something honest. Something connected to the earth. Something that continues the legacy that was built there.

I believe places have souls. That home had one. It still does. And I hope that what happens next honours what that place stood for. The quiet. The knowledge. The healing. The connection to nature. The intention to live gently. I hope people understand the value of what is at risk. And I hope that somehow, through effort and respect, something can be saved.

I carry the memory of that place with me. And I hope this moment becomes not the end of it, but the beginning of renewal. The beginning of something that will keep its spirit alive for years to come.