Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. I keep coming back to this weird feeling that Vipassanā isn’t as clean as people want it to be. At least, not in the realm of actual experience. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
Yet, in the middle of a sit, dealing with physical discomfort and a slumping spine, with a mind obsessively revisiting decade-old dialogues, the experience is incredibly messy. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.
The Late-Night Clarity of the Human Mess
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Maybe because everything else shuts up a bit. The traffic outside is quieter. My phone is silenced, and the air still holds the trace of burnt incense, mixed with something dusty. I suddenly realize how much tension I'm holding in my jaw. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I’ve read that Munindra possessed a rare quality of never hurrying the process for anyone. That he let students struggle, doubt, loop back, mess up. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. Even meditation becomes another thing to be good at. Another silent competition with myself. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
There are days when I sit and feel nothing special at all. Just boredom. Heavy boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. I used to think that meant I was doing it wrong. Now I’m not so sure. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about boredom. He didn't see it as a barrier to be destroyed. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
This evening, I became aware of a low-grade grumpiness for no obvious cause. No trigger. No drama. Just this low-grade grumpiness sitting in my chest. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. Stronger than mindfulness sometimes. But then came a quiet intuition, suggesting that even this irritation belongs here. This counts. This is part of the deal.
A Legacy Without Authority Games
I cannot say for certain if those were his here words, as I never met him. However, the stories of his teaching imply a deep faith in the process of awakening refusing to treat it like a cold, mechanical system. He seemed to have a genuine faith in people, which is a rare quality. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He had no interest in appearing as a master who had transcended the human condition. He remained right in the middle of it.
My leg fell asleep about ten minutes ago. I shifted slightly even though I told myself not to. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. Then there was a brief moment of silence. Not deep. Not cosmic. Just a gap. Then the thoughts returned. Perfectly ordinary.
That is precisely what I find so compelling about his legacy. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The relief of not having to categorize every moment as a breakthrough. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that Munindra personified, transforms the practice from a rigid examination into a long-term, clumsy friendship with myself. And that is enough of a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.