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. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. 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. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. 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 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 am in a seated posture, though it's more of a discouraged slouch than a meditative one. My thoughts are loud and unremarkable—just the standard mix of memories, future plans, and trivialities. 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. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. "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. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. Like I should be more serene or more focused after all this time. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. 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. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. 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 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.
My back was more info sweaty. The floor felt colder than I expected. Breath came and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
There is no feeling of enlightenment here; far from it. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. I'll likely look for more tangible progress or some confirmation that this isn't a waste of effort. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. 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.