I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. I have been preoccupied with this thought all night for reasons I don't fully understand. It may have been an offhand remark from years ago, or perhaps a line in a volume I never completed, or maybe just a sound on a recording so distorted it was nearly unintelligible. Is it not true that names manifest in our lives with such lack of ceremony? They just turn up and then they linger.
It is the deep of night, the time when a building acquires a very specific type of silence. A cup on the nearby table has turned completely cold, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. In any case, when he comes to mind, I am not occupied with formal teachings or accomplishments. I just think about how people lower their voices when they talk about him. To be perfectly sincere, that is the most accurate description I can offer.
I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. It is a quiet force, manifesting as a collective pause and a subtle re-centering of those present. It appeared as though he was entirely free from the impulse to rush. He appeared willing to wait through the tension of a moment until it resolved naturally. Perhaps this is merely my own interpretation, as I often find myself doing.
I have a vague recollection—perhaps from a film I viewed in the past— in which his speech was remarkably deliberate. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. I recall my own sense of restlessness, followed by a sudden feeling of shame. I am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
Within that environment, reverence is as common as the air itself. Yet he appeared to bear that respect without any outward display of pride. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I know that sounds like poetry, though I am merely trying to be accurate. It is simply the mental picture that I keep returning to.
I often find myself wondering about the nature of tharmanay kyaw a life lived in that way. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It sounds wearying, and it is not a path I would seek. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
There’s a motorbike far off outside. It fades pretty quick. I continue to reflect on the fact that the term "respected" feels quite hollow. It doesn't have the appropriate feel; true respect is occasionally awkward. It is a heavy burden, causing one to straighten their posture instinctively.
I do not write this to categorize who he was as a person. That task is beyond my capability. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward when the room is quiet and you aren't really doing anything important at all.