I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. I never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. 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. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
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. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
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. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
Earlier today, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. I recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but click here one of simple... recognition.
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. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or 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 will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. 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 continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. 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.