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. 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. 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. 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 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. And certainly, that is a valid aspect of the practice; I understand and respect that. 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. In my thoughts, Munindra represents a very different energy. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
I reflect on his vast influence, which he achieved without ever seeking status. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He didn’t turn practice into a performance. No pressure to be mystical. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even toward the unpleasant parts of the website self.
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. 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. 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. Breath came and went like it didn’t care about my spiritual ambitions. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. 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 feel tired. Slightly comforted. Slightly confused. The mind’s still 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 tonight, it’s enough to remember that someone like Munindra existed, walked this path, and didn’t strip it of warmth.
The fan’s still clicking. The knee still hurts. The mind’s still loud. And strangely, that feels acceptable for the moment. Nothing is repaired or resolved, but it is enough to continue, one simple breath after another, without the need to pretend it is anything else.