I can’t even really pin down where I first heard the name Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, 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 turn up and then they linger.
It’s late—the kind of late where the house gets that specific sort of quiet. Next to me sits a cup that has long since lost its warmth, and I’ve just been staring at it instead of moving. Regardless, my reflections on him are not about academic doctrines or historical records. I simply recall the way people soften their tone when his name is mentioned. Quite simply, that is the most candid way I can put it.
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. One sensed that he was a man who moved without the slightest haste. Like he was willing to stay in the uncomfortable parts of a moment until things finally settled. Perhaps this is merely my own interpretation, as I often find myself doing.
I recall a hazy image—it might have been a recorded fragment I saw once— where he was speaking so slowly. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. At first, I actually get more info 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 am unsure if that reveals more about his nature or my state of mind.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. Still, he seemed to shoulder the burden of it without any ostentation. He made no grand displays, only a quiet persistence. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I am aware that this comparison is poetic, even if I did not mean it to be. It is simply the mental picture that I keep returning to.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live like that. Being under observation for decades, as people judge themselves by your stillness, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It sounds exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. I doubt that he "wished" for such a role, but I have no way of knowing.
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 a heavy thing, making you improve your posture without even realizing why.
I'm not composing this to define his persona. I would not be able to succeed in such an endeavor. I am simply noting the endurance of particular names. How they shape things quietly, and then come back to you years later during moments of silence when one is occupied with nothing of great significance.