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. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. 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. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
It is nearly 2 a.m., and I can hear the rhythmic, uneven click of the fan. I ought to have repaired that fan long ago. My knee is throbbing slightly; it's a minor pain, but persistent enough to be noticed. 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. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
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. 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.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. 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 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.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness read more upon myself. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. 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 feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. I suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. 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 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.