The precise moment I first became aware of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw remains elusive. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, or perhaps just a muffled voice from a poor-quality recording. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
In the late hours, the dwelling has settled into its own profound quietude. A mug on the table beside me has become entirely cold, and I have been observing it instead of shifting my position. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. I just think about how people lower their voices when they talk about him. That’s the most honest thing I can say, really.
The reason why some figures carry such inherent solemnity is unclear. It is not a noisy presence, but rather a profound pause—a subtle shift in the room's energy. In his presence, one felt that he was never in a hurry. It was as if he could dwell within the awkwardness of an instant until it found its own peace. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
There’s this memory I have—it’s fuzzy, maybe a video I saw once— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. I recall my own sense of restlessness, check here followed by a sudden feeling of shame. I am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
Within that environment, reverence is as common as the air itself. Yet he 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 am aware that this comparison is poetic, even if I did not mean it to be. It’s just the image that keeps coming back to me.
At times, I ponder the experience of living in that manner. Being under observation for decades, as people judge themselves by your stillness, or even how you consume food, or your equanimity in the face of change. It sounds exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
There’s a motorbike far off outside. It fades pretty quick. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It lacks the proper weight; true reverence can be uncomfortable at times. It is a heavy burden, causing one to straighten their posture instinctively.
I do not write this to categorize who he was as a person. I would not be able to succeed in such an endeavor. I am simply noting the endurance of particular names. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward when the surroundings are still and one is not engaged in anything vital.