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. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I have no personal memory of sitting with him, listening to his speech, or seeing his famous pauses in person. 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.
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. 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.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. 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 should be more serene or more focused after all this time. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. He seems more gentle and 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. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. 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 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, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. anagarika munindra It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. The breath flowed in and out, seemingly oblivious to my desire for progress. 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 kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. 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 for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The clicking fan, the painful knee, and the loud mind are all still here. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.