I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. 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. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. 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 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 apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. 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. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely thien su munindra different. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. He was a key teacher for Dipa Ma and a quiet influence on the Goenka lineage. 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. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. I had a brief impulse to coerce my mind into "correct" awareness. And then I remembered Munindra again. Or rather, the idea of him smiling at how ridiculous this whole inner drama is. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. 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 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 feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still jumping. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. 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 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, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.