The precise moment I first became aware of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw remains elusive. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, or even a faint voice on an old, distorted tape. Is it not true that names manifest in our lives with such lack of ceremony? They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
The night has grown late, bringing that unique silence that fills a house. Next to me sits a cup that has long since lost its warmth, and I have been doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. In any case, when he comes to mind, I am not occupied with formal teachings or accomplishments. 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’s not loud. It’s just... a pause in the room. A slight adjustment in how everyone sits. It appeared as though he was entirely free from the impulse to rush. Like he was willing to stay in the uncomfortable parts of a moment until things finally settled. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.
There’s this memory I have—it’s fuzzy, maybe a video I saw once— where he was speaking so slowly. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. Initially, I suspected a technical delay in the recording, but it was simply his manner. Waiting; letting the speech take effect, or perhaps not. I remember feeling so impatient, and then immediately being embarrassed by it. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. But he seemed to carry the weight of it without ever showing it off. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing 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 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 don't think he "wanted" it either, but I don't actually know.
In the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading rapidly. I continue to think that the word “respected” lacks the necessary depth. It does not carry the right meaning; authentic respect is often heavy. It’s heavy. It makes you stand up a little straighter without you even knowing why.
I am not attempting to define his character in these words. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I am merely observing the way some names persist website in the mind. How they influence the world in silence and return to your consciousness after many years in the quiet of a room when you aren't doing anything significant.