I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about 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 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 simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
It is late into the night, the hour when a home reaches a particular level of stillness. A mug on the table beside me has become entirely cold, and I have been doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. However, when he is in my thoughts, I don't focus on religious tenets or a list of milestones. I merely remember how conversation hushes whenever he is the subject. Quite simply, that is the most candid way I can put it.
I’m not sure why some people have that kind of gravity. It is not a noisy presence, but rather a profound pause—a subtle shift in the room's energy. One sensed that he was a man who moved without the slightest haste. He appeared willing to wait through the tension of a moment until it resolved naturally. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.
A dim memory remains—possibly a video clip I once encountered— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. His sentences were separated by significant periods of silence. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember feeling so impatient, and then immediately being embarrassed by it. I do not know if that observation is more about his presence or my lack of it.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. Yet he carried that mantle of respect without ever drawing attention to it. He made no grand displays, only a quiet persistence. Like a caretaker of a fire that has endured beyond living 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 in that manner. Having others watch you for a lifetime, using your silence as their standard, or even the way you take nourishment, or your steady non-reactivity. It seems like an exhausting existence, and it isn't something I'd want. I doubt that he "wished" for such a role, but I have no way of knowing.
In the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading rapidly. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It doesn't have the appropriate feel; true respect is occasionally awkward. It is a heavy thing, making you improve your posture without even realizing why.
I'm not composing this to define his persona. I would get more info be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. The manner in which they influence reality quietly and reappear in thought much later during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.