I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. For some unknown reason, this has been on my mind throughout the evening. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or possibly a distant voice on a low-quality audio recording. Names often emerge in this way, appearing without any formal introduction. They just arrive and then they stay.
It is late into the night, the hour when a home reaches a particular level of stillness. Next to me sits a cup that has long since lost its warmth, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. In any case, when he comes to mind, I am not occupied with formal teachings or accomplishments. I merely remember how conversation hushes whenever he is the subject. Quite simply, that is the most candid way I can put it.
I am uncertain as to what grants some people that particular sense of gravity. It isn't noisy; it's just a momentary stillness in the room—a subtle change in everyone's posture. In his presence, one felt that he was never in a hurry. He appeared willing to wait through the tension of a moment until it resolved naturally. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
I have a vague recollection—perhaps from a film I viewed in the past— in which his speech was remarkably deliberate. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. Initially, I suspected a technical delay in the recording, but it was simply his manner. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I do not know if that observation is more about his presence or my lack of it.
In that specific culture, respect is simply part of the surroundings. However, he seemed to hold that dignity without any hint of ostentation. Without grandiosity, he embodied a simple, steady continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I know that sounds like poetry, though I am merely trying to be check here accurate. It is simply the visualization that recurs in my mind.
I often find myself wondering about the nature of a life lived in that way. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It seems like an exhausting existence, and it isn't something I'd want. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
In the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading rapidly. I find myself reflecting on how inadequate the term “respected” seems. It does not carry the right meaning; authentic respect is often heavy. It is a heavy thing, making you improve your posture without even realizing why.
I do not write this to categorize who he was as a person. I would be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. How they influence the world in silence and return to your consciousness after many years in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.