The precise moment I first became aware of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw remains elusive. 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 possibly a distant voice on a low-quality audio recording. Is it not true that names manifest in our lives with such lack of ceremony? They just arrive and then they stay.
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 doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. 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. In all honesty, that is the most authentic thing I can state.
I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. It is a quiet force, manifesting as a collective pause and a subtle re-centering of those present. 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. Or perhaps I am just projecting my own feelings; I have a tendency to do that.
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 these long, empty spaces between his sentences. At first, I actually thought the audio was lagging. But no. It was just him. He was simply waiting, letting the impact of his words find their own place. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I don’t know if that says more about him or me.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. Still, he seemed to shoulder the burden of it without any ostentation. No grand gestures. Just... continuity. Like someone tending a fire that’s been burning longer than anyone can remember. 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 occasionally contemplate what such an existence must be like. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or your way of taking meals, or your more info complete lack of reaction to things. It sounds exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. I do not believe he "aimed" for that life, yet I am only guessing.
In the distance, a motorcycle passes, its sound fading rapidly. 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 profound; it compels a person to sit more formally without conscious thought.
I do not write this to categorize who he was as a person. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. The way they exert a silent influence and then return to memory years afterward when the surroundings are still and one is not engaged in anything vital.