I simply cannot remember the exact circumstances in which I first heard of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. The thought has persisted in my mind tonight, though I cannot explain why. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, or possibly a distant voice on a low-quality audio recording. Names tend to surface in this way, arriving without any sense of occasion. They simply appear and then remain ingrained in the mind.
The night has grown late, bringing that unique silence that fills a house. A cup on the nearby table has turned completely cold, and I have been doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. Regardless, my reflections on him are not about academic doctrines or historical records. I just think about how people lower their voices when they talk about him. 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’s not loud. It’s just... a pause in the room. A slight adjustment in how everyone sits. With him, it always felt like he didn't rush. Ever. As if he were prepared to remain in the awkward segments of time until everything became still. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.
I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he was talking at such an unhurried pace. He left these vast, quiet gaps between each of his sentences. To begin with, I thought the recording was buffering, but it was actually just him. 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. Whether that reflects more on his character or my own, I cannot say.
In that world, respect is just part of the air. However, he seemed to hold that dignity without any hint of ostentation. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. He resembled someone maintaining a fire that has burned for ages. I know that sounds like poetry, though I am merely trying to be accurate. It is the primary image that persists in my thoughts.
I occasionally contemplate what such an existence must be like. To be observed for years, with others gauging their progress against your quietude, or your manner of eating, or your lack of reaction to external stimuli. It sounds check here exhausting. I wouldn’t want it. I suspect he did not "desire" it himself, though I cannot be certain.
A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. 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'm not composing this to define his persona. I couldn’t do that if I tried. I am only reflecting on the way certain names remain with us. How they influence the world in silence and return to your consciousness after many years when the room is quiet and you aren't really doing anything important at all.