The smallest trigger can bring it back. This time it was the sound of pages sticking together while I was browsing through an old book placed too near the window pane. It's a common result of humidity. I stopped for a duration that felt excessive, methodically dividing each page, and his name drifted back to me, softly and without warning.
There’s something strange about respected figures like him. They are not frequently seen in the public eye. If seen at all, it is typically from a remote perspective, viewed through a lens of stories, memories, and vague citations whose origins have become blurred over time. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. Devoid of theatricality, devoid of pressure, and devoid of excuse. And those absences say more than most words ever could.
I remember once asking someone about him. Without directness or any sense of formality. Simply a passing remark, like a comment on the climate. The individual inclined their head, gave a slight smile, and replied “Ah, Sayadaw… very steady.” That was the extent of it, with no further detail. In that instance, I felt a minor sense of disappointment. Now I think that response was perfect.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The illumination is flat, lacking any golden or theatrical quality—it is simply light. I am positioned on the floor rather than in a chair, quite arbitrarily. Maybe my back wanted a different kind of complaint today. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. Wisdom is a frequent topic of discussion, yet steadiness seems more difficult to achieve. Wisdom can be admired from afar. Steadiness, however, must be embodied in one's daily existence.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Transitions in power and culture, the slow wearing away and the sudden rise that characterizes the modern history of Burma. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They talk about consistency. As if he was a reference point that didn’t move while everything else did. It is difficult to understand how one can maintain that state without turning stiff. That balance feels almost impossible.
There’s a small moment I keep replaying, although I am not certain the event occurred exactly as I recall. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as though he possessed all the time in the world. It might have been another individual, not tharmanay kyaw Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory tends to merge separate figures over time. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That sense of not being rushed by the world’s expectations.
I often ask myself what the cost of that specific character might be. I do not mean in a grand way, but in the small details of each day. The subtle sacrifices that appear unremarkable to others. Remaining silent when one could have spoken. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Allowing people to see in you whatever they require I am unsure if he ever contemplated these issues. Perhaps he was free of such concerns, and maybe that's the key.
I notice dust on my fingers from the old volume. I clean my hands in an unthinking manner. Composing these thoughts seems somewhat redundant, in a positive sense. Not everything needs to have a clear use. At times, it is enough just to admit. that some lives leave a deep impression. never having sought to explain their own nature. I perceive Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw in exactly that way. An aura that is sensed rather than understood, and perhaps intended to remain so.