Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. I never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. 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 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. 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. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. 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 feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly 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
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. 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. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. The breath flowed in and out, seemingly oblivious to my desire for progress. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. 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 just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. But tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and here didn’t strip it of warmth.
The clicking fan, the painful knee, and the loud mind are all still here. And strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it is enough to continue, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.