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. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or even just a voice on a recording so grainy I could barely make it out. Certain names manifest in our consciousness in such a manner—without fanfare. They arrive unannounced and then take root.
It is late into the night, the hour when a home reaches a particular level of stillness. 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. However, when he is in my thoughts, I don't focus on religious tenets or a list of milestones. I just remember the way voices drop to a whisper whenever people speak of him. To be perfectly sincere, that is the most accurate description I can offer.
I am uncertain as to what grants some people that particular sense of gravity. It is not a noisy presence, but rather a profound pause—a subtle shift in the room's energy. 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. Perhaps this is merely my own interpretation, as I often find myself doing.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. There were these long, empty spaces between his sentences. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I do not know if that observation is more about his presence or my lack of it.
In that specific culture, respect is more info simply part of the surroundings. But he seemed to carry the weight of it without ever showing it off. 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’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 the way you eat, or the way you don't react to things. It sounds exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. 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 continue to think that the word “respected” lacks the necessary depth. It doesn't have the appropriate feel; true respect is occasionally awkward. 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 would be unable to do so even if I made the attempt. I am simply noting the endurance of particular names. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.