Finding a Friend in the Dhamma: The Human Legacy of Anagarika Munindra

It occurs to me that Munindra’s approach to the mind was akin to a long-term friendship—unrushed, accepting of imperfections, and profoundly patient. 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. 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.

Night Reflections: When the Mind Stops Pretending
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’s face down. There’s this faint smell of incense still hanging around, mixed with something dusty. I notice my jaw’s tight. I didn’t notice when it started. That’s usually how it goes. Tension sneaks in quietly, like it belongs there.
I recall that Munindra was known for never pressuring his students. He gave people the permission to be confused, to doubt, and to repeat their mistakes. That specific trait resonates with me, as my entire existence feels like a race. Hurrying toward comprehension, toward self-betterment, and toward a different mental state. 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
Some sessions offer nothing profound—only an overwhelming, heavy sense of boredom. The kind that makes you check the clock even though you promised you wouldn’t. I once interpreted this as a failure in my practice, but my perspective is shifting. Munindra’s approach, at least how I imagine it, doesn’t freak out about boredom. He wouldn't have categorized it as an enemy to be conquered. It’s just… boredom. A state. A thing passing through. Or not passing through. Either way.
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. At times, that urge is far more potent than my actual awareness. Then, a gentle internal shift occurred—a subtle realization that even this state is part of the path. This counts. This is part of the deal.

Consistency Over Performance
I don’t know if Munindra would’ve said that. I wasn’t there. Yet, the accounts of his life suggest he had a profound trust in the natural unfolding of the Dhamma rather than treating it as a predictable, industrial operation. He also possessed a rare trust in the individual student. 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 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 here tiny rebellion that my internal critic noted immediately—of course. After that, a brief silence occurred—not an enlightened void, just a momentary gap. And then thinking again. Normal.
Ultimately, that is the quality of Munindra that remains in my thoughts. The grace to remain human while engaging with a deep spiritual path. The permission to not turn every experience into a milestone. Some nights are just nights. Some sits are just sits. Many minds are simply noisy, fatigued, and resistant.

I’m still unsure about a lot. About progress. About where this leads. About whether I’m patient enough for this path. However, reflecting on the human warmth of Vipassanā that Munindra personified, 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.