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. 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. 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. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
It’s around 2 a.m. right now. The fan’s making that uneven clicking sound again. 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. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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 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 website test I didn’t sign up for. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. 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 lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
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 remembered Munindra again. Or rather, the idea of him smiling at how ridiculous this whole inner drama is. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but 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. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. Munindra appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
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 will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
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.