I find myself thinking of Anagarika Munindra whenever the practice seems too cluttered, too flawed, or filled with uncertainties I cannot silence. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. 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. 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 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’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. My mind is cluttered with the usual noise: past recollections, future agendas, and random fragments of thought. 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. 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. I acknowledge that rigor is part of the tradition, and I hold that in high regard. However, on some days, that rigid atmosphere makes me feel as if I am failing an unrequested examination. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, just human.
It's amazing how many lives he touched while remaining entirely unassuming. more info 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. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
The Ridiculous Drama of the Mind
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.” Then I thought of Munindra again—or the concept of him smiling at the absurdity of this internal theatre. It wasn't a smile of mockery, but one of simple... recognition.
My back was damp with sweat, and the floor was chillier than I had anticipated. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. That’s what I constantly forget: the Dhamma doesn't need my "story" to function; it just proceeds. 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.
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 will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I’ll probably want clearer signs, better progress, some proof I’m not wasting time. 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, one ordinary breath at a time, without pretending it’s anything more than this.