I find myself unable to trace the specific origin of my first hearing about Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. It’s been bothering me tonight, for some reason. It might have been a casual mention from an acquaintance years back, or a passage in a book left unread, or even just a voice on a recording so grainy I could barely make it out. Names just show up like that, don't they? No ceremony. They simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
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 remain still, simply staring at it. Regardless, my thoughts of him do not center on complex dogmas or a catalog of successes. I merely remember how conversation hushes whenever he is the subject. That’s the most honest thing I can say, really.
I am uncertain as to what grants some people that particular sense of gravity. It is a quiet force, manifesting as a collective pause and a subtle re-centering of those present. With him, there was the feeling that he was never, ever in a state of hurry. Like he was willing to stay in the uncomfortable parts of a moment until things finally settled. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.
A dim memory remains—possibly a video clip I once encountered— in which his words were delivered with extreme deliberation. There were deep, silent intervals between his utterances. I first imagined there was a flaw in the sound, yet it was merely his own rhythm. He was waiting, allowing his speech to resonate or fade as it would. I remember feeling so impatient, and then immediately being embarrassed by it. I'm not certain if that is a reflection on him or a reflection on me.
In that specific culture, respect is simply part of the surroundings. But he seemed to carry the weight of it without ever showing it off. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I know that sounds a bit poetic, and I’m not trying to be. It is simply the mental picture that I keep returning to.
I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. People watching you for decades, measuring themselves against your silence, or the way you eat, or the way you don't react to things. Such a life seems tiring; I have no wish for it. I don't think he "wanted" it either, but I don't actually know.
There’s a motorbike far off outside. It fades pretty quick. I continue to reflect on the fact that the term "respected" feels quite hollow. It does not carry the right meaning; authentic respect is often heavy. It’s heavy. It makes you stand up a little straighter without you even knowing why.
My purpose is not to provide an explanation of his identity. It is not something I would be able to do. I am simply noting the endurance of particular names. The manner in which they influence reality quietly and reappear in thought much later in the get more info quiet of a room when you aren't doing anything significant.