I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or even just a voice on a recording so grainy I could barely make it out. Names often emerge in this way, appearing without any formal introduction. They arrive unannounced and then take root.
The night has grown late, bringing that unique silence that fills a house. There’s a cup on the table next to me that’s gone totally cold, and I remain still, simply staring at it. In any case, when he comes to mind, I am not occupied with formal teachings or accomplishments. I simply recall the way people soften their tone when his name is mentioned. To be perfectly sincere, that is the most accurate description I can offer.
I’m not sure why some people have that kind of gravity. It is a quiet force, manifesting as a collective pause and a subtle re-centering of those present. 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. Or it could be that I am projecting; I am prone to such reflections.
I recall a hazy image—it might have been a recorded fragment I saw once— where he was speaking so slowly. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. Waiting, he allowed the weight of his speech to settle in its own time. I remember my own frustration, followed by an immediate sense of embarrassment. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In that specific culture, respect is simply part of the surroundings. Yet he here carried that mantle of respect without ever drawing attention to it. 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 realize that has a poetic tone, even though I'm not intending it to. It is the metaphor that consistently returns to me.
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 your way of taking meals, or your complete lack of reaction to things. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
A motorcycle is audible in the distance, then quickly goes quiet. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. It doesn't have the right texture. Real respect is awkward, sometimes. It is a weighty force that makes one straighten their spine without knowing why.
I am not attempting to define his character in these words. It is not something I would be able to do. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. How they influence the world in silence and return to your consciousness after many years when the surroundings are still and one is not engaged in anything vital.