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’ve never sat in front of him, never heard his voice live, never watched him pause mid-sentence the way people say he did. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. 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 neglected to repair it weeks back. There is a dull ache in my knee—nothing severe, but just enough to demand my attention. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. My mind is cluttered with the usual noise: past recollections, future agendas, and random fragments of thought. 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 apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. 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’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. 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.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
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. 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. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing 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. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. 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 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 here 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’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.