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. I didn’t meet Anagarika Munindra. That’s the funny part. Or maybe not funny. 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. 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 should’ve fixed it weeks ago. My knee hurts a bit, the dull kind, not dramatic, just annoying enough to keep reminding me it exists. 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
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Observe this. Note that. Be exact. Be relentless. And yeah, that’s part of it. I get that. I respect it. But there are days when that whole vibe just makes me feel like I’m failing a test I didn’t sign up for. As if I ought to have achieved more calm or clarity by this point. Munindra, at least the version of him living in my head, feels different. He seems more gentle and compassionate—not through laziness, but through a deep sense of humanity.
I think about how many people he influenced without acting like a big deal. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. 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. No obsession with being special. Just attention. Kind attention. Even to the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
During my walking practice earlier, I found myself genuinely irritated by a bird. Its constant noise was frustrating. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. 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 website of simple... recognition.
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. I often lose sight of the fact that the process is independent of my personal narrative. It simply unfolds. Munindra seemed to embody this truth without making the practice feel clinical or detached. A human mind, a human body, and a human mess—all still capable of practice, all still valuable.
I don’t feel enlightened writing this. Not even close. I just feel exhausted, a little soothed, and somewhat confused. My mind hasn't stopped jumping. I suspect the doubt will return when I wake up. 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 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.