Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. 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. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. 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. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. 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.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. 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’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely 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 click here 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. 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. 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. 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 understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still 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’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. 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 simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.