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 never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. Even so, he manifests as a quiet influence that surfaces whenever I feel exasperated with my internal dialogue. Usually late. Usually when I’m tired. 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 neglected to repair it weeks back. There is a dull ache in my knee—nothing severe, but just enough to demand my attention. I’m sitting but not really sitting, more like half-slouched, half-giving-up. 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. 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 frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. "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. Yet, there are times when that intensity makes me feel like I’m failing a test I never agreed to take. Like I’m supposed to be calmer, clearer, more something by now. The image of Munindra I carry in my mind feels entirely different. He feels more approachable and forgiving; he wasn't idle, just profoundly human.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. He guided Dipa Ma and indirectly influenced Goenka, among countless others. Despite this, he remained... ordinary? That term feels simultaneously inaccurate and perfect. 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 Persistence of the Practice Beyond the Ego
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. For a moment, I tried to force a sense of "proper" mindfulness upon myself. And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not in a judgmental way, but just... witnessing it.
My back was sweaty. The floor felt colder than get more info 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 appeared to have a profound grasp of this, yet he kept it warm and human rather than mechanical. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
I certainly don't feel any sense of awakening as I write this. I am fatigued, somewhat reassured, and a bit perplexed. My thoughts are still restless. Tomorrow I’ll probably doubt again. 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 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, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.