It is difficult to recall exactly when I first encountered the name of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. This question has lingered in my thoughts tonight with a strange persistence. It may have been an offhand remark from years ago, or perhaps a line in a volume I never completed, or even a faint voice on an old, distorted tape. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They merely arrive and then refuse to leave.
It is the deep of night, the time when a building acquires a very specific type of silence. There’s a cup on the table next to me that’s gone totally cold, 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 only think of the reverent silence that accompanies any discussion of him. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
The reason why some figures carry such inherent solemnity is unclear. It is a quiet force, manifesting as a collective pause and a subtle re-centering of those present. In his presence, one felt that he was never in a hurry. Like he was willing to stay in the uncomfortable parts of a moment until things finally settled. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
I have a vague recollection—perhaps from a film I viewed in the past— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. To begin with, I thought the recording was buffering, but it was actually 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. Whether that reflects more on his character or my own, I cannot say.
In such a world, respect is a natural and ever-present element. Yet he carried that mantle of respect without ever drawing attention to it. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. He was like a guardian of a flame that has been alight since time immemorial. 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 here sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. 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 think he "wanted" it either, but I don't actually know.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I keep pondering how the word “respected” feels insufficient. It is missing the correct texture; genuine respect can be a difficult thing. 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. That task is beyond my capability. 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 during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.