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. 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. Often right after I've convinced myself that the practice is useless for now, or maybe for good.
The time is roughly 2 a.m., and the fan has resumed its irregular clicking. 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’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 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 apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
Beyond the Technical: The Warmth of Munindra's Path
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect 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. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
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 website myself. 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. 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 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.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. I’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. 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 strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it is enough to continue, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.