I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. For some unknown reason, this has been on my mind throughout the evening. Maybe it was a passing comment from someone years ago, or a line in a book I never finished, or perhaps just a muffled voice from a poor-quality recording. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They just turn up and then they linger.
In the late hours, the dwelling has settled into its own profound quietude. Beside me, a cup of tea has grown cold in the quiet, and I have been observing it instead of shifting my position. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. 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.
I’m not sure why some people have that kind of gravity. It isn't noisy; it's just a momentary stillness in the room—a subtle change in everyone's posture. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. It was as if he could dwell within the awkwardness of an instant until it found its own peace. Perhaps this is merely my own interpretation, as I often find myself doing.
I have a vague recollection—perhaps from a film I viewed in the past— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. 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. Waiting. Letting the words land, or not land. 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 that world, respect is just part of the air. Yet he appeared to bear that check here respect without any outward display of pride. 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 realize that may sound somewhat lyrical, though that is not my intent. It is the primary image that persists in my thoughts.
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 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 suppose he "sought" it either, but I can't say for sure.
There’s a motorbike far off outside. It fades pretty quick. I continue to think that the word “respected” lacks the necessary depth. It doesn't have the right texture. Real respect is awkward, sometimes. It is a heavy thing, making you improve your posture without even realizing why.
I am not attempting to define his character in these words. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I am merely observing the way some names persist in the mind. The manner in which they influence reality quietly and reappear in thought much later when the room is quiet and you aren't really doing anything important at all.