I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. I have been preoccupied with this thought all night for reasons I don't fully understand. It might have been a casual mention from an acquaintance years back, or a passage in a book left unread, or possibly a distant voice on a low-quality audio recording. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. There’s a cup on the table next to me that’s gone totally cold, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. I merely remember how conversation hushes whenever he is the subject. That’s the most honest thing I can say, really.
I am uncertain as to what grants some people that particular sense of gravity. It is an understated power; a simple stillness in the air that changes the way people carry themselves. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. It was as if he could dwell within the awkwardness of an instant until it found its own peace. Or it could be that I am projecting; I am prone to such reflections.
I have a vague recollection—perhaps from a film I viewed in the past— where he was speaking so slowly. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. Waiting, he allowed the weight of his speech to settle in its own time. I remember my impatience rising, only to be replaced by a sense of embarrassment. I am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present tharmanay kyaw element. Still, he seemed to shoulder the burden of it without any ostentation. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I know that sounds a bit poetic, and I’m not trying to be. It is the metaphor that consistently returns to me.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or the way you eat, or the way you don't react to things. It seems like an exhausting existence, and it isn't something I'd want. I suspect he did not "desire" it himself, though I cannot be certain.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I continue to think that the word “respected” lacks the necessary depth. 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.
I am not attempting to define his character in these words. I would not be able to succeed in such an endeavor. I am only reflecting on the way certain names remain with us. How they shape things quietly, and then come back to you years later in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.