I have a growing sense that Anagarika Munindra viewed meditation much like one views a lifelong friend: with all its flaws, with immense patience, and without the demand for instant transformation. I cannot shake the feeling that the practice of insight is far more chaotic than the idealized versions we read about. Not in real life, anyway. On paper, it looks orderly—full of maps, stages, and clear diagrams.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, mind replaying conversations from ten years ago for no reason, it’s messy as hell. And somehow, when I think of Anagarika Munindra, that mess doesn’t feel like a mistake.
Tension, Incense, and the Unfiltered Self
Once more, it is late; for some reason, these insights only emerge in the darkness. Perhaps it is because the external noise has finally faded, and the street is silent. My phone’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I become aware that my jaw is clenched, though I can't say when it began. Tension is a subtle intruder; it infiltrates the body so quietly that it feels natural.
I’ve read that Munindra possessed a rare quality of never hurrying the process for anyone. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. I hold onto that detail because I spend so much of my own time in a state of constant hurry. Rushing to understand, rushing to improve, rushing to get somewhere else mentally. I even turn the cushion into a stadium, making practice another arena for self-competition. And that’s where the human side gets lost.
When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
On many days, the sit is entirely unspectacular, dominated by a dense cloud of boredom. The sort of tedium that compels you to glance at the timer despite your vows. I used to think that meant I was doing it wrong. Now I’m not so sure. Munindra’s way, as I perceive it, remains unruffled by the presence of boredom. It doesn’t label it as an obstacle click here that needs smashing. It is simply a state of being—a passing phenomenon, whether it lingers or not.
A few hours ago, I felt a surge of unexplained irritation. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I wanted it gone. Immediately. That urge to fix is strong. Occasionally, the need to control is much stronger than the ability to observe. And then there was this soft internal reminder, not a voice exactly, more like a tone, saying, yeah, this too. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.
Consistency Over Performance
I cannot say for certain if those were his words, as I never met him. But the way people talk about him, it sounds like he trusted the process rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. This is especially notable in spiritual circles where power dynamics often become problematic. 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 tiny rebellion that my internal critic noted immediately—of course. This was followed by a short interval of quiet—not a mystical state, just a simple pause. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
I guess that’s what sticks with me about Munindra. The freedom to be ordinary while following a profound tradition. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. Some evenings have no grand meaning, and some sits are just sitting. Certain minds are just naturally loud, exhausted, and difficult.
I still harbor many doubts regarding my progress and the goal of the path. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. But remembering the human side of Vipassanā, the side Munindra seemed to embody, makes it feel less like a test and more like a long, awkward friendship with my own mind. And maybe that’s enough to show up again tomorrow, even if nothing dramatic happens.