Something small triggers it. This particular time, the sound of sticky pages was the cause as I turned the pages of a long-neglected book placed too near the window pane. Such is the nature of humid conditions. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, separating the pages one by one, and his name simply manifested again, quiet and unbidden.
There is a peculiar quality to revered personalities such as his. They are not often visible in the conventional way. If seen at all, it is typically from a remote perspective, conveyed via narratives, memories, and fragmented sayings that remain hard to verify. My knowledge of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw seems rooted in his silences. The void of drama, the void of rush, and the void of commentary. Those missing elements convey a deeper truth than most rhetoric.
I recall an occasion when I inquired about him. Not directly, not in a formal way. Just a casual question, as if I were asking about the weather. The individual inclined their head, gave a slight smile, and replied “Ah, Sayadaw… always so steady.” That was the extent of it, with no further detail. At first, I felt a little unsatisfied with the answer. Now, I recognize the perfection in that brief response.
Currently, the sun is in its mid-afternoon position. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I’m sitting on the floor instead of the chair for no real reason. Maybe my back wanted a different kind of complaint today. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. We prioritize the mention of wisdom, but steadiness more info is arguably more demanding. One can appreciate wisdom from a great distance. But steadiness must be practiced consistently in every moment.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Political shifts, social shifts, the slow erosion and sudden rebuilding which defines the historical arc of modern Burma. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They talk about consistency. He was like a fixed coordinate in a landscape of constant motion. It is difficult to understand how one can maintain that state without turning stiff. That balance feels almost impossible.
I find myself mentally revisiting a brief instant, even if I am uncertain if my recollection is entirely accurate. A bhikkhu slowly and methodically adjusting his traditional robes, with the air of someone who had no other destination in mind. That might not even have been Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory tends to merge separate figures over time. Nonetheless, the impression remained. That feeling of being unhurried by the expectations of the world.
I often reflect on the sacrifices required to be a person of that nature. Not in a grand sense, but in the mundane daily sacrifices. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. Remaining silent when one could have spoken. Letting misunderstandings stand. Letting others project their own expectations onto your silence. I don’t know if he thought about these things. Perhaps he did not, and perhaps that is exactly the essence.
My hands are now covered in dust from the old book. I brush it off absentmindedly. Composing these thoughts seems somewhat redundant, in a positive sense. Not everything needs to have a clear use. Sometimes, the simple act of acknowledgement is enough. that specific lives leave a profound imprint. without ever trying to explain themselves. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw is such a figure in my eyes. A presence to be felt rather than comprehended, perhaps by design.