I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, or even a faint voice on an old, distorted tape. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They just arrive and then they stay.
The night has grown late, bringing that unique silence that fills a house. Beside me, a cup of tea has grown cold in the quiet, and I remain still, simply staring at it. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. I just remember the way voices drop to a whisper whenever people speak of him. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
It is hard to explain why certain individuals possess such natural weight. It is an understated power; a simple stillness in the air that changes the way people carry themselves. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. He seemed capable of remaining in the midst of discomfort until a state of balance was reached. Or maybe I’m just projecting. I do that sometimes.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. His sentences were separated by significant periods of silence. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. Waiting; letting the speech take effect, or perhaps not. 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 tradition, respect is a fundamental part of the atmosphere. However, he seemed to hold that dignity without any hint of ostentation. He made no grand displays, only a quiet persistence. He was like a guardian of a flame that has been alight since time immemorial. I know that sounds a bit poetic, and I’m not trying to be. It is simply the visualization that recurs in my mind.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. Having people observe you for decades, comparing their own lives to your silence, or the way you eat, or the way you don't react to things. Such a life seems tiring; I have no wish for it. I doubt that he "wished" for such a role, but I have no way of knowing.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. It lacks the proper weight; true reverence can be uncomfortable at times. It is profound; it compels a person to sit more formally without conscious thought.
I’m not writing this to explain who he was. I would be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I am click here only reflecting on the way certain names remain with us. How they shape things quietly, and then come back to you years later during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.