Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. The irony is that I never actually met Anagarika Munindra. Perhaps "irony" isn't the right word. 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. Nevertheless, he appears—not as a formal instructor, but as a subtle presence that arrives when I am annoyed by my own thoughts. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. 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 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. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. "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 be more serene or more focused after all this time. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He seems 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. 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.
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. 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 remembered Munindra again. Or rather, the idea of him smiling at how ridiculous this whole inner drama is. 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. 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.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. 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 probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. 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’s okay right now. Not fixed. Not solved. Just okay enough to keep going, just one ordinary breath at a time, click here without any pretension.