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. Still, he shows up. Not like a teacher, more like a presence that sneaks in when I’m frustrated with my own mind. 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.
It’s around 2 a.m. right now. The fan’s making that uneven clicking sound again. 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. The mind’s noisy. Nothing special. Just the usual stuff. Memories, plans, random nonsense. 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 was known for his frequent laughter, a real and heartfelt kind. That trait remains in my mind more vividly than any technical instruction.
Vipassanā: Precision Tool vs. Human Reality
Vipassanā is frequently marketed as a highly precise instrument. 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. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. Softer. More forgiving. Not lazy, more info just human.
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. And yet he stayed… normal? That word feels wrong but also right. He didn't make the practice about showmanship or force a mystical persona. He lacked any ego about being unique; he simply offered kind attention to everything, especially the "ugly" parts of the mind.
Walking with Munindra: Humor in the Midst of Annoyance
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. Then I noticed the annoyance. Then I got annoyed at myself for being annoyed. Classic. 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. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. 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 seemed to understand that deeply, without turning it into something cold or 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. 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, just one ordinary breath at a time, without any pretension.