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 have no personal memory of sitting with him, listening to his speech, or seeing his famous pauses in person. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. 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 neglected to repair it weeks back. There is a dull ache in my knee—nothing severe, but just enough to demand my attention. I am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
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." And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect here that. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just 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 turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
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. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. 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 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. But tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The clicking fan, the painful knee, and the loud mind are all still here. And somehow, that is perfectly fine for now. It's not "fixed," but it's okay enough to just keep going, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.