It is often a minor detail that sets it off. This particular time, the sound of sticky pages was the cause while I was browsing through an old book kept on a shelf too close to the window. Humidity does that. I stopped for a duration that felt excessive, separating the pages one by one, 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. One might see them, yet only from a detached viewpoint, transmitted through anecdotes, reminiscences, and partial quotations which lack a definitive source. When I think of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, he is defined by his 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 an occasion when I inquired about him. It wasn't a direct or official inquiry. 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… remarkably consistent.” That was it. No elaboration. Initially, I experienced a touch of letdown. In hindsight, I see that reply as being flawless.
It’s mid-afternoon where I am. The light is dull, not golden, not dramatic. Just light. I’m sitting on the floor instead of the chair for no real reason. Perhaps my body sought a new form of discomfort today. I keep thinking about steadiness, about how rare it actually is. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. It is easy to admire wisdom from a distance. Steadiness must be lived in close proximity, throughout each day.
Throughout his years, Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw endured vast shifts Shifts in the political and social landscape, alongside the constant flux of rebuilding that seems to define modern Burmese history. Nevertheless, discussions about him website rarely focus on his views or stances. They speak primarily of his consistency. He served as a stationary reference point amidst a sea of change How one avoids rigidity while remaining so constant is a mystery to me. That balance feels almost impossible.
A small scene continues to replay in my thoughts, although I am not certain the event occurred exactly as I recall. A monk adjusting his robe, slowly, carefully, as if there was no other place he needed to be. It is possible that the figure was not actually Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory blurs people together. But the feeling stuck. The feeling of being unburdened by the demands of society.
I often ask myself what the cost of that specific character might be. Not in a dramatic sense. Just the daily cost. The subtle sacrifices that appear unremarkable to others. Choosing not to engage in certain conversations. Allowing false impressions to persist without rebuttal. Accepting the projections of others without complaint. Whether he reflected on these matters is unknown to me. Maybe he was beyond such thoughts, which could be the entire point.
There’s dust on my hands now from the book. I brush it off absentmindedly. 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 never having sought to explain their own nature. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw feels very much like that to me. A presence to be felt rather than comprehended, perhaps by design.