Anagarika Munindra keeps popping into my head when practice feels too human, too messy, too full of doubts I don’t know how to shut up. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. I have no personal memory of sitting with him, listening to his speech, or seeing his famous pauses in person. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. I should’ve fixed it weeks ago. My knee hurts a bit, the dull kind, not dramatic, just annoying enough to keep reminding me it exists. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. And then I remember something I read about Munindra, how he didn’t push people, didn’t hype enlightenment, didn’t pretend this was some clean, heroic journey. He was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a read more test I never agreed to take. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. He didn't make the practice about showmanship or force a mystical persona. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
The Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. Munindra seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or mechanical. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. And somehow, that’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.