Sometimes I think Anagarika Munindra understood meditation the same way people understand old friends—imperfectly, patiently, without needing them to change overnight. I am repeatedly struck by the realization that Vipassanā is rarely as tidy as the textbooks suggest. In practice, it certainly doesn't feel organized. In the literature, everything is categorized into neat charts and developmental milestones.
But the reality of sitting involves numb limbs and a posture that won't stay straight, while the mind drifts into useless memories of the past, everything feels completely disorganized. Somehow, remembering Munindra makes me feel that this chaos isn't a sign that I'm doing it wrong.
The Late-Night Clarity of the Human Mess
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, mingled with the smell of old dust. I become aware that my jaw is clenched, though I can't say when it began. 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. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. That detail stays with me. Most of my life feels like rushing. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. Meditation often transforms into just another skill to master—a quiet battle for self-improvement. That is exactly how we lose touch with our own humanity.
When the "Fix-It" Mind Meets the Dhamma
Some sessions offer nothing profound—only an overwhelming, heavy sense 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. He wouldn't have categorized it as an enemy to be conquered. It is merely boredom—a condition that arises, stays, or goes. It doesn't matter.
Earlier this evening, I noticed irritation bubbling up for no clear reason. There was no specific event, just a persistent, dull anger in my chest. I felt a powerful urge to eliminate it instantly; the desire to "fix" myself is overwhelming. Stronger than mindfulness sometimes. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. This is not an interruption; it is the work itself.
A Legacy Without Authority Games
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. However, the stories of his teaching imply a deep faith in the process of awakening rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He trusted people, too. That feels rare. Particularly in spiritual environments where the role of the teacher can easily become distorted. He didn't pretend to be an exalted figure who was far removed from the struggles of life. He was comfortable within the mess.
For the last ten minutes, my leg has been insensate, and I finally moved, breaking my own rule. A minor act of defiance, which my mind immediately judged. As expected. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. And then, the internal dialogue resumed. Normal.
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. There more info are nights that are merely nights, and sessions that are merely sessions. Some minds are just loud and tired and stubborn.
I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About my own capacity for the patience this practice demands. Yet, keeping in mind the human element of the Dhamma that Munindra lived, makes the path feel less like a series of tests and more like an ongoing, awkward companionship with my own mind. And that is enough of a reason to show up again tomorrow, even if the sit is entirely ordinary.