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. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. 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.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. 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. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. "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. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. 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. He seems more gentle and website compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. 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.
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. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” 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. The breath flowed in and out, seemingly oblivious to my desire for progress. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. Munindra appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. 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 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, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.