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 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. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. I ought to have repaired that fan long ago. My knee is throbbing slightly; it's a minor pain, but persistent enough to be noticed. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. 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.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. 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. He seems here more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. 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.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
Earlier today, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. 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 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. 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. But tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. 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.