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 never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. 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’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. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. Then I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. He was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." 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 failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. 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. 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 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 Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
Earlier today, during walking meditation, I got annoyed at a bird. Literally annoyed. It wouldn’t shut up. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. 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.
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 the part I keep forgetting. The practice click here doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
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 will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. However, for tonight, it's enough to know that Munindra was real, that he walked this path, and that he kept it kind.
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.