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. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
It’s around 2 a.m. right now. The fan’s making that uneven clicking sound again. 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. 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. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He didn't make the practice about showmanship or force a mystical persona. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” And then I remembered Munindra again. Or rather, the idea of him smiling at how ridiculous this whole inner drama is. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. The breath flowed in and out, seemingly oblivious to my desire for progress. I often lose sight check here of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. I suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. 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.