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. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. 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’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 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. 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.
Vipassanā: From Rigid Testing to Human Acceptance
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m more info failing a test I never agreed to take. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. I recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. 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. 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. 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 will likely face doubt again tomorrow. 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 continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And somehow, that’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.