We live in a world that’s absolutely obsessed with feedback. Every action we take seems to involve a search for a "like" or a sign that we are moving in the right direction. Even on the cushion, we remain caught in the cycle of asking if our practice is correct or if we have reached a certain level of wisdom. We look to our instructors for a detailed plan, praise, and motivational support to sustain our effort.
Veluriya Sayadaw represented the absolute opposite of that need for constant reassurance. As a Burmese monastic, he truly embodied the role of a silent alternative. If your goal was to hear an ornate philosophical lecture, he would have surely disappointed you. He refrained from verbal analysis and inspirational talks, manifesting only his own presence. For those who had the internal strength to endure his silence, his quietude proved to be a more powerful and deep instruction than any spoken words.
The "Awkward Silence" that Saves You
The initial reaction of students meeting his silence was likely one of profound unease. We expect to be lead, but under his tutelage, the "guidance" was merely a mirror for one's own mind. When a teacher doesn't constantly check in on you or give you a "level up" talk, the mind is suddenly stripped of its usual escapes. All that restlessness, that "I’m bored" voice, and those nagging doubts? They simply remain, forcing you to acknowledge them.
It sounds uncomfortable—and honestly, it probably was—but that was the whole point. He aimed to move students away from external validation and toward internal observation.
It is like that instant of fear when the training wheels are removed from a bicycle; the terror is momentary, but the resulting balance is authentic and self-sustained.
The Reliability of Present-Moment Reality
Veluriya Sayadaw was a heavyweight in the Mahāsi tradition, which means he was big on continuity.
In his view, practice was not an act confined to a single hour on the meditation mat. It was:
• The way you walked to the well.
• The way you ate your rice.
• The click here way you handled the fly buzzing around your face.
His life was characterized by an exceptional level of stability and focus. There were no "spiritual trials" or decorative extras in his practice. He relied on the belief that constant awareness of the present, consistently applied, the truth would eventually reveal itself. He felt no need to decorate the Dhamma, realizing it was always present—it is only our own mental noise that prevents us from witnessing it.
Deconstructing the "Self" through Physical Sensations
His perspective on dealing with unpleasant states was remarkably transparent. Nowadays, we have so many "hacks" to manage stress or soften the blow of physical pain. Veluriya, however, made no attempt to mitigate these experiences. Whether facing somatic pain, extreme tedium, or mental agitation, his "instruction" was basically to just... let it happen.
By refusing to give you a "strategy" to escape the discomfort, he compelled you to remain present until you perceived a vital truth: the absence of solidity. What you labeled as "pain" is actually just a shifting impersonal cloud of data. The boredom is nothing more than a transient state of mind. Realization comes not from books, but from remaining in the discomfort until the resistance dissolves.
The Reliability of Silence
He left no published texts or long-form recordings for the public. His legacy is much more subtle. It’s found in the steadiness of his students—individuals who realized that wisdom is not contingent upon one's emotional state It is a result of consistent effort.
Veluriya Sayadaw showed us that the Dhamma doesn't need a PR team. Constant speech is not a prerequisite for deep comprehension. Often, the most profound teaching occurs when the instructor gets out of the way. It’s a reminder that when we stop adding our own "commentary" to every moment, we might finally begin to comprehend the raw nature of things.