I can’t even really pin down where I first heard the name Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. It may have been an offhand remark from years ago, or perhaps a line in a volume I never completed, or even a faint voice on an old, distorted tape. Names just show up like that, don't they? No ceremony. They arrive unannounced and then take root.
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’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 just remember the way voices drop to a whisper whenever people speak of him. Truly, that is the most truthful observation I can provide.
I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. 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. He appeared willing to wait through the tension of a moment until it resolved naturally. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
A dim memory remains—possibly a video clip I once encountered— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. There were these long, empty spaces between his sentences. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. Waiting; letting the speech take effect, or perhaps not. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In such a click here world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. Yet he carried that mantle of respect without ever drawing attention to it. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. He was like a guardian of a flame that has been alight since time immemorial. I know that sounds a bit poetic, and I’m not trying to be. It is simply the mental picture that I keep returning to.
At times, I ponder the experience of living in that manner. 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. Such a life seems tiring; I have no wish for it. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
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 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 be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. How they shape things quietly, and then come back to you years later when the room is quiet and you aren't really doing anything important at all.