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. 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. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Often right after I've convinced myself that the practice is useless for now, or maybe for good.
It is nearly 2 a.m., and I can hear the rhythmic, uneven click of the fan. 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. My posture is a mix of sitting and slouching, a physical reflection of my desire to quit. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. 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. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
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.” Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. 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 appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I feel get more info tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. However, for tonight, it's enough to know that Munindra was real, that he walked this path, and that he kept it kind.
The clicking fan, the painful knee, and the loud mind are all still here. 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.