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 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. Typically in the late hours. Generally when I am exhausted. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
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. 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. Then I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. He apparently laughed a lot. Like, actually laughed. That detail sticks with me more than any technique.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
Vipassanā is often sold like this precision tool. "Observe this phenomenon. Note that state. Be precise. Never stop." And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. 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 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 Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
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 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 here my spiritual goals. That’s the part I keep forgetting. The practice doesn’t care about my story. It just keeps happening. 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.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. 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, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.