Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. 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.
It is nearly 2 a.m., and I can hear the rhythmic, uneven click of the fan. I neglected to repair it weeks back. There is a dull ache in my knee—nothing severe, but just enough to demand my attention. My posture is a mix of sitting and slouching, a physical reflection of my desire to quit. 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 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. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. 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. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It website wouldn’t shut up. 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.” Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. Breath came 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 appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
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. 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 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, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.