I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. 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. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Usually when I’ve already decided meditation isn’t working today, or this week, or maybe ever.
It is nearly 2 a.m., and I can hear the rhythmic, uneven click of the fan. 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. 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 was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I should website be more serene or more focused after all this time. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. 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 Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
Earlier today, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. I recognized the anger, and then felt angry at myself for having that reaction. It’s a classic cycle. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. 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 seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or mechanical. A human consciousness, a human form, and a human mess. All of it is workable. All of it is worthy.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. 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 tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The fan continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And somehow, that’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.