Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. 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. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. 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 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. 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.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. 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. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. 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 didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
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. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. 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 appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he check here kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. 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 suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. I’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.