I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. This question has lingered in my thoughts tonight with a strange persistence. It may have been an offhand remark from years ago, or perhaps a line in a volume I never completed, or perhaps just a muffled voice from a poor-quality recording. Is it not true that names manifest in our lives with such lack of ceremony? They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
It is late into the night, the hour when a home reaches a particular level of stillness. Next to me sits a cup that has long since lost its warmth, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of 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. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
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. 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.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember my own frustration, followed by an immediate sense of embarrassment. I don’t know if that says more about him or me.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. Still, he seemed to shoulder the burden of it without any ostentation. Without grandiosity, he embodied a simple, steady continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. 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 read more in that manner. Having others watch you for a lifetime, using your silence as their standard, or even how you consume food, or your equanimity in the face of change. 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 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.
My purpose is not to provide an explanation of his identity. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.