It is difficult to recall exactly when I first encountered the name of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. I have been preoccupied with this thought all night for reasons I don't fully understand. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or maybe just a sound on a recording so distorted it was nearly unintelligible. Names often emerge in this way, appearing without any formal introduction. They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
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 have been doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. Anyway. When I think about him, I don’t really think about doctrines or lists of achievements. I only think of the reverent silence that accompanies any discussion of him. 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. With him, there was the feeling that he was never, ever in a state of hurry. He appeared willing to wait through the tension of a moment until it resolved naturally. Perhaps this is merely my own interpretation, as I often find myself doing.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he was speaking so slowly. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. He was simply waiting, letting the impact of his words find their own place. I remember my impatience rising, only to be replaced by a sense of embarrassment. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In that tradition, respect is a fundamental part of the atmosphere. Yet he appeared to bear that respect without any outward more info display of pride. He made no grand displays, only a quiet persistence. Like a caretaker of a fire that has endured beyond living memory. I know that sounds like poetry, though I am merely trying to be accurate. It is the primary image that persists in my thoughts.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or your way of taking meals, or your complete lack of reaction 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 motorbike can be heard far away, its noise soon disappearing. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It doesn't have the right texture. Real respect is awkward, sometimes. It is a heavy burden, causing one to straighten their posture instinctively.
I'm not composing this to define his persona. I would be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I’m just noticing how certain names linger. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.