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’ve never sat in front of him, never heard his voice live, never watched him pause mid-sentence the way people say he did. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. 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. 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
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision 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. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. 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.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever check here 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.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
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 recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. 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 understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. 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 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.