The precise moment I first became aware of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw remains elusive. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or even a faint voice on an old, distorted tape. Names just show up like that, don't they? No ceremony. They just arrive and then they stay.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. 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. Regardless, my reflections on him are not about academic doctrines or historical records. I merely remember how conversation hushes whenever he is the subject. 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 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 seemed capable of remaining in the midst of discomfort until a state of balance was reached. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
I recall a hazy image—it might have been a recorded fragment I saw once— in which his speech was remarkably deliberate. 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. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember my own frustration, followed by an immediate sense of embarrassment. Whether that reflects more on his character or my own, I cannot say.
Within that environment, reverence is as common as the air itself. Yet he carried that mantle of respect without ever drawing attention to it. There were no dramatic actions, only a sense of unbroken continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I here 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 sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. To be observed for years, with others gauging their progress against your quietude, or even the way you take nourishment, or your steady non-reactivity. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It is missing the correct texture; genuine respect can be a difficult thing. It is profound; it compels a person to sit more formally without conscious thought.
My purpose is not to provide an explanation of his identity. It is not something I would be able to do. I am only reflecting on the way certain names remain with us. The manner in which they influence reality quietly and reappear in thought much later in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.