I can’t even really pin down where I first heard the name Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. For some unknown reason, this has been on my mind throughout the evening. Perhaps it was a brief remark made long ago, or a sentence in an incomplete reading, or maybe just a sound on a recording so distorted it was nearly unintelligible. Names often emerge in this way, appearing without any formal introduction. They just arrive and then they stay.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. Beside me, a cup of tea has grown cold in the quiet, and I find myself gazing at it rather than taking action. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. 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 an understated power; a simple stillness in the air that changes the way people carry themselves. It appeared as though he was entirely free from the impulse to rush. 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— where he was speaking so slowly. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. At first, I actually thought the audio website was lagging. But no. It was just him. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. I remember my own frustration, followed by an immediate sense of embarrassment. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. But he seemed to carry the weight of it without ever showing it off. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I realize that has a poetic tone, even though I'm not intending it to. It is the primary image that persists in my thoughts.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. Being under observation for decades, as people judge themselves by your stillness, or even the way you take nourishment, or your steady non-reactivity. It seems like an exhausting existence, and it isn't something I'd want. I do not believe he "aimed" for that life, yet I am only guessing.
A motorcycle is audible in the distance, then quickly goes quiet. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. It lacks the proper weight; true reverence can be uncomfortable at times. It’s heavy. It makes you stand up a little straighter without you even knowing why.
I’m not writing this to explain who he was. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. How they influence the world in silence and return to your consciousness after many years in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.