A tiny spark is usually enough to ignite the memory. This particular time, the sound of sticky pages was the cause while I was browsing through an old book placed too near the window pane. It's a common result of humidity. I found myself hesitating for a long moment, carefully detaching the sheets individually, and somehow his name surfaced again, quietly, without asking.
One finds a unique attribute in esteemed figures like the Sayadaw. Their presence is seldom seen in a literal manner. Or maybe you see them, but only from a distance, filtered through stories, recollections, half-remembered quotes which lack a definitive source. When I think of Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw, he is defined by his absences. The void of drama, the void of rush, and the void of commentary. These very voids speak more eloquently than any speech.
I remember once asking someone about him. Not directly, not in a formal way. Only an offhand query, no different from asking about the rain. The person nodded, smiled a little, and said something like, “Ah, Sayadaw… he possesses great steadiness.” There was no further explanation given. At the moment, I felt somewhat underwhelmed. Today, I consider that answer to have been entirely appropriate.
Here, it is the middle of the afternoon. 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. It could be that my back was looking for a different sensation this afternoon. I find myself contemplating steadiness and its actual uniqueness. Wisdom is often praised, but steadiness feels like the more arduous path. Wisdom is something we can respect from the outside. Steadiness, however, must be embodied in one's daily existence.
Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw witnessed immense transformations during his life. Political upheavals, societal transitions, and cycles of erosion and renewal which defines the historical arc of modern Burma. Nevertheless, discussions about him rarely focus on his views or stances. They speak primarily of his consistency. As if he were a permanent landmark that stayed still while the environment fluctuated. I’m not sure how someone manages that without becoming rigid. 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 taking great care to fix his robe in a slow manner, as though he were in no hurry to go anywhere else. It might have been another individual, not Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. Memory tends to merge separate figures over time. But the sense of the moment remained strong. The feeling of being unburdened by the demands of society.
I find myself wondering, often, what it costs to be that kind of person. Not in a dramatic sense. Just the daily cost. The quiet offerings that others might not even recognize as sacrifices. Missing conversations you could have had. Permitting errors in perception to remain. Permitting individuals to superimpose their own needs upon your image. I don’t know if he thought about these things. It could be that he didn't, and that may be the very heart of it.
There is a layer of dust on my hands from the paper. more info I brush it off absentmindedly. Writing these words feels a bit unnecessary, and I mean that kindly. Utility is not the only measure of value. At times, it is enough just to admit. that certain existences leave a lasting trace. without feeling the need to explain their own existence. Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw feels like that to me. A presence to be felt rather than comprehended, perhaps by design.