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. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. 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 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. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. "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. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
The Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
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. 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 mocking. Just… seeing 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 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. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. check here Still workable. Still worthy.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. However, for tonight, it's enough to know that Munindra was real, that he walked this path, and that he kept it kind.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. 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.