We exist in an era dominated by the need for immediate feedback. Consider how often we seek a "like," a response, or some form of proof that our actions are correct. 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, however, served as the perfect remedy for such a needy state of mind. This Burmese monk was a master of the "anti-instruction," teaching through his own steady presence. If your goal was to hear an ornate philosophical lecture, he would have surely disappointed you. He avoided academic commentary and motivational speaking, choosing instead to simply... be. For those practitioners possessed of the resilience to remain, his silence turned out to be a louder, more profound teacher than any lecture could ever be.
The Fear and Freedom of Self-Reliance
The initial reaction of students meeting his silence was likely one of profound unease. While we crave direction, Veluriya's only "map" was the reflection of the student's own internal state. When a teacher doesn't constantly check in on you or give you a "level up" talk, one's mental narratives find themselves without a hiding place. All that restlessness, that "I’m bored" voice, and those nagging doubts? They simply remain, forcing you to acknowledge them.
It appears to be a challenging way to practice, but that was precisely his intent. 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; it’s terrifying for a second, but that’s the only way you actually learn to balance.
Practice as a Lifestyle, Not a Performance
Veluriya Sayadaw was a heavyweight in the Mahāsi tradition, which means he was big on continuity.
He did not see meditation as a specific "performance" during formal sitting sessions. It consisted of:
• The quality of awareness while walking to fetch water.
• The attention paid to the act of consuming food.
• The presence of mind while dealing with a buzzing insect.
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, was sufficient for the truth to manifest on its own. He didn't need to embellish the Dhamma because he knew it was already there—we are simply too preoccupied with our internal chaos to perceive it.
No Escape: Finding Freedom within Discomfort
One of the things I find most refreshing about his style was how he handled difficulty. Nowadays, we have so many "hacks" to manage stress or soften the blow of physical pain. But Veluriya didn’t try to soften anything. Whether facing somatic pain, extreme tedium, or mental agitation, his "instruction" was basically to just... let it happen.
By denying you a "tactic" for avoiding pain, he compelled you to remain present until you perceived a vital truth: the absence of solidity. That pain you mistook for a fixed entity is merely a series of rising and falling vibrations. That boredom? It’s just a passing mental state. Realization comes not from books, but from remaining in the discomfort until the resistance dissolves.
Finding Clarity when the Commentary Stops
He bequeathed no written volumes or extensive click here audio archives. His impact is far more understated. It’s found in the steadiness of his students—practitioners who know that insight does not rely on being "inspired." It relies solely on the act of persistent presence.
His life showed that the Dhamma is complete without any public relations. Understanding does not depend on the repetition of words. Sometimes, the best thing a teacher can do is get out of the way and let the silence do the talking. It is a prompt that when we end our habit of interpreting every experience, we can begin to perceive reality as it truly is.