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. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I’ve never sat in front of him, never heard his voice live, never watched him pause mid-sentence the way people say he did. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. I ought to have repaired that fan long ago. My knee is throbbing slightly; it's a minor pain, but persistent enough to be noticed. My posture is a mix of sitting and slouching, a physical reflection of my desire to quit. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. Then I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. 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. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. 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.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. I recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable here of practice, all still valuable.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. However, for tonight, it's enough to know that Munindra was real, that he walked this path, and that he kept it kind.
The fan continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.