Something small triggers it. Tonight, it was the subtle sound of pages clinging together as I turned the pages of a long-neglected book left beside the window for too long. Moisture has a way of doing that. I paused longer than necessary, methodically dividing each page, and somehow his name surfaced again, quietly, without asking.
There is a peculiar quality to revered personalities such as his. One rarely encounters them in a direct sense. Perhaps their presence is only felt from a great distance, conveyed via narratives, memories, and fragmented sayings which lack a definitive source. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. Devoid of theatricality, devoid of pressure, and devoid of excuse. These very voids speak more eloquently than any speech.
I recall an occasion when I inquired about him. Not directly, not in a formal way. Just a lighthearted question, much like an observation of the sky. My companion nodded, smiled gently, and noted “Ah, Sayadaw… always so steady.” That was it. No elaboration. In that instance, I felt a minor sense of disappointment. Now I think that response was perfect.
The time is currently mid-afternoon in my location. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I find myself sitting on the floor today, for no identifiable cause. It could be that my back was looking for a different sensation this afternoon. I find myself contemplating steadiness and its actual uniqueness. We prioritize the mention of wisdom, but steadiness is arguably more demanding. Wisdom can be admired from afar. Steadiness requires a presence that is maintained day in and day out.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding that characterizes the modern history of Burma. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They speak primarily of his consistency. As if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. I am uncertain how such stability can be achieved without becoming dogmatic. Achieving that equilibrium seems nearly unachievable.
There’s a small moment I keep replaying, even if I am uncertain if my recollection is entirely accurate. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as if there was no other place he needed read more to be. It is possible that the figure was not actually Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Recollections have a way of blending people's identities. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That impression of not being hurried by external pressures.
I find myself questioning the personal toll of being such an individual. Not in a dramatic sense. Just the daily cost. The subtle sacrifices that appear unremarkable to others. Choosing not to engage in certain conversations. Letting misunderstandings stand. Letting others project their own expectations onto your silence. I am unsure if he ever contemplated these issues. Perhaps he did not, and perhaps that is exactly the essence.
There is a layer of dust on my hands from the paper. I remove the dust without much thought. The act of writing this feels almost superfluous, and I say that with respect. Not all reflections need to serve a specific purpose. Sometimes it’s enough to acknowledge that certain lives leave an imprint without the need for self-justification. I perceive Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw in exactly that way. An aura that is sensed rather than understood, and perhaps intended to remain so.