Sayadaw Tharmanay Kyaw: Reflections on a Revered Master of the Theravāda Lineage

I can’t even really pin down where I first heard the name Tharmanay Kyaw Sayadaw. For some unknown reason, this has been on my mind throughout the evening. Could it have been an incidental comment from the past, or a fragment from a text I abandoned, or even just a voice on a recording so grainy I could barely make it out. Names just show up like that, don't they? No ceremony. They just arrive and then they stay.

It is the deep of night, the time when a building acquires a very specific type of silence. A cup on the nearby table has turned completely cold, and I have been doing nothing but looking at it rather than moving. However, when he is in my thoughts, I don't focus on religious tenets or a list of milestones. I simply recall the way people soften their tone when his name is mentioned. Quite simply, that is the most candid way I can put it.

I do not know why certain people seem to possess such an innate sense of importance. It is not a noisy presence, but rather a profound pause—a subtle shift in the room's energy. In his presence, one felt that he was never in a hurry. He seemed capable of remaining in the midst of discomfort until a state of balance was reached. Then again, perhaps I am merely projecting my own thoughts; it is something I tend to do.

I possess a faint memory—it could be from a video I saw long ago— where he spoke with such profound slowness. Extensive pauses filled the gaps between his spoken thoughts. To begin with, I thought the recording was buffering, but it was actually just him. He was simply waiting, letting the impact of his words find their own place. I can still feel the initial impatience I felt, and the subsequent regret it caused. I don’t know if that says more about him or me.

In that world, respect is just part of the air. But he seemed to carry the weight of it without ever showing it off. No large-scale movements; just an ongoing continuity. Like a person looking after a flame that has existed since long before memory. I know that sounds a bit poetic, click here and I’m not trying to be. It’s just the image that keeps coming back to me.

I sometimes muse on the reality of living such a life. To be observed for years, with others gauging their progress against your quietude, or even how you consume food, or your equanimity in the face of change. It appears to be an exhausting way to live, one I would not desire. I suspect he did not "desire" it himself, though I cannot be certain.

A distant motorcycle sounds in the night, then quickly recedes. I keep thinking about how the word “respected” feels so flat. It doesn't have the right texture. Real respect is awkward, sometimes. It is a weighty force that makes one straighten their spine without knowing why.

I'm not composing this to define his persona. It is not something I would be able to do. I'm just observing how particular names remain in the memory. The way they influence things in silence, only to reappear in your mind years later in those quiet moments when one is doing nothing of consequence.