We live in a world that’s absolutely obsessed with feedback. Think about it—every time we do something, we’re looking for a "like," a comment, or some kind of validation that we’re on the right track. Even in meditation, we’re constantly asking, "Am I doing this right?" or "Is this insight yet?" We often expect our teachers to provide us with a "gold star" and the motivation needed to stay the course.
Veluriya Sayadaw, however, served as the perfect remedy for such a needy state of mind. He was a member of the Burmese Sangha who perfected the art of being a quiet counter-example. If your goal was to hear an ornate philosophical lecture, he would have surely disappointed you. He didn’t do commentary. He didn’t do "motivational." He just... was. For those practitioners possessed of the resilience to remain, his refusal to speak resulted in a deeper level of insight than any oral teaching could provide.
Transcending Reassurance: The Harsh Mercy of Veluriya Sayadaw
The initial reaction of students meeting his silence was likely one of profound unease. We’re so used to being "guided," but with Veluriya, the guidance was basically a mirror. When an instructor refuses to validate your progress or offer motivational speech, one's mental narratives find themselves without a hiding place. The inherent agitation, the internal voice of boredom, and the persistent uncertainty? They just sit there, staring back at you.
This sounds difficult, and it likely was, yet that was the intended goal. His goal was for people to abandon their reliance on the teacher and begin observing their own minds.
It is like that instant of fear when the training wheels are removed from a bicycle; it’s terrifying for a second, but that’s the only way you actually learn to balance.
The Reliability of Present-Moment Reality
A prominent figure in the Mahāsi lineage, Veluriya Sayadaw prioritized unbroken awareness.
To him, meditation was far more than an isolated period of sitting quietly. It consisted of:
• The way you walked to the well.
• The way you ate your rice.
• The way you handled the fly buzzing around your face.
He embodied a remarkably constant and simple existence. He avoided all experimental methods or unnecessary additions to the path. He relied on the belief that constant awareness of the present, consistently applied, would ultimately allow the truth to be seen clearly. He didn't seek to improve the Dhamma, knowing its presence was constant—we’re just usually too distracted by our own noise to see it.
The Alchemy of Resistance: Staying with the Fire
I find his way of dealing with suffering to be incredibly honest and direct. In the modern world, we utilize numerous "shortcuts" to alleviate stress or minimize physical discomfort. Veluriya, on the other hand, did not seek to make things "easier" for the student. If you were in pain, or bored get more info out of your mind, or agitated, his primary advice was simply to... allow it to be.
By refusing to give you a "strategy" to escape the discomfort, he made you sit with the experience until you witnessed the ultimate reality: the lack of a solid "self." That pain you thought was a permanent block? It’s actually just a bunch of shifting sensations. That boredom? It’s just a passing mental state. One discovers this only by staying in the difficult states until they are no longer viewed as an "enemy."
The Reliability of Silence
He didn't leave behind books or hours of recorded audio. His contribution is felt in a much more delicate way. It manifests in the stable presence of his followers—individuals who realized that wisdom is not contingent upon one's emotional state It is a result of consistent effort.
He was proof that the Dhamma does not need to be "sold" to the public. Understanding does not depend on the repetition of words. Occasionally, the most effective act of a guide is to step aside and allow the quiet to instruct. It is a prompt that when we end our habit of interpreting every experience, we may at last start to witness the world as it truly exists.