Anagarika Munindra frequently enters my thoughts whenever my meditation feels overly human, disorganized, or plagued by persistent doubts. Curiously, I never had the chance to meet Munindra in person, which is strange when I think about it. I never sat in his presence, heard the actual sound of his voice, or witnessed his characteristic mid-sentence pauses. 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. Mostly at the moment I’ve concluded that meditation is a failure for the day, the week, or perhaps permanently.
It’s around 2 a.m. right now. The fan’s making that uneven clicking sound again. 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 I recall a detail about Munindra: he wasn't one to rush people or market enlightenment as some polished, epic adventure. By all accounts, he laughed frequently—genuine, real laughter. That specific detail resonates with me far more than any meditative method.
The Forgiving Presence in a World of Spiritual Performance
The practice of Vipassanā is often presented as a sharp, surgical tool. Watch this. Label that. Maintain exactness. Be unwavering. 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. 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. Dipa Ma. Goenka, indirectly. So many others. Yet he stayed... normal? It’s an odd word to use, but it feels fundamentally correct. He never treated the path as a performative act or pressured anyone to appear mystical. He had no need to be "special." There was only awareness—a kind, gentle awareness directed even click here toward the unpleasant parts of the self.
Smiling at the Inner Struggle
Earlier today, I actually felt angry at a bird while walking. It simply wouldn't stop chirping. I noted the irritation, and then felt irritated at my own lack of composure. A typical meditative trap. There was this split second where I almost forced myself into being mindful “correctly.” And then I recalled the image of Munindra, perhaps smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of this mental drama. Not mocking. Just… seeing it.
I felt the sweat on my back and the unexpected coldness of the floor. My breathing continued rhythmically, entirely indifferent to my spiritual goals. 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. Human mind. Human body. Human mess. Still workable. Still worthy.
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. I will likely face doubt again tomorrow. I will probably crave more obvious milestones, better results, or evidence that I am not failing. 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 continues to click, my knee still aches, and my mind remains noisy. 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.