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. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. Often right after I've convinced myself that the practice is useless for now, or maybe for good.
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. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. My mind is cluttered with the usual noise: past recollections, future agendas, and random fragments of thought. 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.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. 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. 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. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He didn't make the practice about showmanship or force a mystical persona. 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, 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.” And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
I felt the read more 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 seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or 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 just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. 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’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. 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.