I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. It might have been a casual mention from an acquaintance years back, or a passage in a book left unread, 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 just turn up and then they linger.
It is late into the night, the hour when a home reaches a particular level of stillness. Beside me, a cup of tea has grown cold in the quiet, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. Regardless, my reflections on him are not about academic doctrines or historical records. I just think about how people lower their voices when they talk about him. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. It is not a noisy presence, but rather a profound pause—a subtle shift in the room's energy. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. As if he were prepared to remain in the awkward segments of time until everything became still. Or maybe I’m just projecting. I do that sometimes.
I recall a hazy image—it might have been a recorded fragment I saw once— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. To begin with, I thought the recording was buffering, but it was actually just him. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. 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. Yet he appeared to bear that respect without any outward display of pride. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I realize that may sound somewhat lyrical, though that is not my intent. It’s just the image that keeps coming back to me.
I often find myself wondering about the nature of a life lived in that way. Having people observe you for decades, comparing their own lives to your silence, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I do not believe he "aimed" for that life, yet I am only guessing.
There’s a motorbike far off outside. It fades pretty quick. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It is missing the correct texture; genuine respect can be a difficult thing. It is profound; it compels a person get more info to sit more formally without conscious thought.
I'm not composing this to define his persona. It is not something I would be able to do. I am only reflecting on the way certain names remain with us. The way they influence things in silence, only to reappear in your mind years later when the surroundings are still and one is not engaged in anything vital.