I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Often right after I've convinced myself that the practice is useless for now, or maybe for good.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. I neglected to repair it weeks back. There is a dull ache in my knee—nothing severe, but just enough to demand my attention. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. My mind is cluttered with the usual noise: past recollections, future agendas, and random fragments of thought. Then a memory of Munindra surfaces—how he avoided pressuring students, never romanticized awakening, and didn't present the path as an easy, heroic feat. 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
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
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 recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. And then I remembered Munindra again. Or rather, the idea of him smiling at how ridiculous this whole inner drama is. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. Breath came and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it read more is workable. All of it is worthy.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.