I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. This question has lingered in my thoughts tonight with a strange persistence. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or maybe just a sound on a recording so distorted it was nearly unintelligible. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
The night has grown late, bringing that unique silence that fills a house. Beside me, a cup of tea has grown cold in the quiet, and I have been observing it instead of shifting my position. However, when he is in my thoughts, I don't focus on religious tenets or a list of milestones. I just think about how people lower their voices when they talk about him. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
I’m not sure why some people have that kind of gravity. It’s not loud. It’s just... a pause in the room. A slight adjustment in how everyone sits. With him, there was the feeling that he was never, ever in a state of hurry. It was as if he could dwell within the awkwardness of an instant until it found its own peace. Or it could be that I am projecting; I am prone to such reflections.
I recall a hazy image—it might have been a recorded fragment I saw once— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. To begin with, I thought the click here recording was buffering, but it was actually just him. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember my impatience rising, only to be replaced by a sense of embarrassment. I do not know if that observation is more about his presence or my lack of it.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. Yet he appeared to bear that respect without any outward display of pride. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. Like a caretaker of a fire that has endured beyond living memory. I am aware that this comparison is poetic, even if I did not mean it to be. It is the metaphor that consistently returns to me.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. Having others watch you for a lifetime, using your silence as their standard, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It sounds exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. I don't suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
A motorbike can be heard far away, its noise soon disappearing. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. 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’m not writing this to explain who he was. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. The way they influence things in silence, only to reappear in your mind years later during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.