Something small triggers it. The trigger today was the sound of paper sticking together as I attempted to leaf through an ancient volume that’s been sitting too close to the window. It's a common result of humidity. I lingered for more time than was needed, pulling the pages apart one at a time, and his name emerged once more, silent and uninvited.
There is a peculiar quality to revered personalities such as his. They are not often visible in the conventional way. Or maybe you see them, but only from a distance, conveyed via narratives, memories, and fragmented sayings that remain hard to verify. With Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, I feel like I know him mostly through absences. The absence of spectacle. The absence of urgency. The absence of explanation. And those absences say more than most words ever could.
I recall asking a person about him on one occasion. In an indirect and informal manner. Simply a passing remark, like a comment on the climate. 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. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. Now I think that response was perfect.
It is now mid-afternoon where I sit. The day is filled with a muted, unexceptional light. I am positioned on the floor rather than in a chair, quite arbitrarily. Maybe I am testing a new type of physical strain today. I am reflecting on the nature of steadiness and how seldom it is found. We prioritize the mention of wisdom, but steadiness is arguably more demanding. Wisdom allows for admiration from a remote vantage point. Steadiness must be lived in close proximity, throughout each day.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw lived through so much change. Changes in politics and society, the gradual decay and rapid reconstruction that seems to define modern Burmese history. Yet, when individuals recall his life, they don't emphasize his perspectives or allegiances They emphasize his remarkable consistency. As if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. It is hard to grasp how he avoided rigidity while staying so firm. Such a balance appears almost beyond human capability.
A small scene continues to replay in my thoughts, although I am not certain the event occurred exactly as I recall. An image of a monk arranging his robes with great deliberation, as though he were in no hurry to go anywhere else. It is possible that the figure was not actually 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. Not in a dramatic fashion, but in the simple cost of daily existence. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. The dialogues that were never held. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Allowing people to see in you whatever they require Whether he reflected on these matters is unknown to me. Maybe he was beyond such thoughts, which could be the entire point.
My hands are now covered in dust from the old book. I clean my hands in an read more unthinking manner. Composing these thoughts seems somewhat redundant, in a positive sense. Not all reflections need to serve a specific purpose. On occasion, it is sufficient simply to recognize. that certain existences leave a lasting trace. without ever trying to explain themselves. I perceive Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw in exactly that way. An aura that is sensed rather than understood, and perhaps intended to remain so.