Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. 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. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
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. 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.
Vipassanā: From Rigid Testing to Human Acceptance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical 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. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many 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. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
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 upon myself. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. 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 don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, website and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. 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 somehow, that’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.