Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. 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. 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 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. 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. Then I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. He apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
Vipassanā: From Rigid Testing to Human Acceptance
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. 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. 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. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
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 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 sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. Breath came more info and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. 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 mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. 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 strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it is enough to continue, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.