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. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. It often happens deep into the night, usually when my energy is low. 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 mind is cluttered with the usual noise: past recollections, future agendas, and random fragments of thought. 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 apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. 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. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. 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 didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
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. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. 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. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
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 will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. But for now, it is sufficient to recall that a man like Munindra lived, practiced this way, and maintained his human warmth.
The fan continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. And strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it more info is enough to continue, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.