Eulogy for My Mother — Bibi Arjinder Kaur Chahal
(spoken by her son, Gurbaksh Singh Chahal)
May 10th, 2025
1 · Trying to Begin
I’ve started this eulogy a dozen times.
Every attempt felt impossible—because beginning means facing the fact that her story is finished, and ending means admitting I’ll never hear her voice again.
Yet there is a story that must be told, a story about the woman I proudly call Mom. And if I had to wrap her entire life in only three words, they would be Love, Faith, Sacrifice.
2 · Love, Faith, Sacrifice
Mom wasn’t just an angel; she was a warrior in a white nurse’s uniform. If she stood in your corner, she stayed there until the fight was over—and then asked if you’d eaten.
Her rule was simple: give more than you take. She lived it so completely that receiving it almost embarrassed her. Looking back over eighty years, I ache at how little ease she allowed herself. She earned more time, more rest, more joy. Illness was never part of the bargain.
I still don’t understand why God called her home now. There were places I planned to take her, stories I needed her to hear, and—most of all—moments I wanted her to share while I raised my son. Part of me still expects her to walk through the door and ask, “Putth, kuch khaa le.”
3 · Roots in Amritsar
Mom was born on April 3, 1945, in Amritsar—second of four children to Jathedar Fauja Singh and my nani. Even as a young girl she walked ahead so others could rest behind her: she cared for her elder sister like a second mother, shielded her youngest brother from chores so he could study, and even helped pay the engineering tuition of the brother who came right after her.
After Khalsa College and nursing school, she married Dad. And Waheguru blessed them with four children. Two daughters and two sons. Comfort could have been within reach in India, but her dream was bigger: a future where her kids could outrun any ceiling. One suitcase, one photograph of four hopeful faces, and a one-way ticket to San Francisco—that’s how her America chapter began.
4 · Immigration: Love in Motion
San Jose welcomed them with cold floors and empty pockets. Dad’s turban closed doors; Mom kicked them open. She worked double shifts at Agnews State Hospital, took night duty in nursing homes, and still found weekend shifts when the fridge looked thin. They both slept on borrowed couches to save for our visas.
Exhaustion never muted her tenderness. At 2 a.m. she’d be packing our lunches, humming gurbani between breaths. By the time the sun rose, those prayers were folded into every roti she slipped into our schoolbags. That was the daily ritual that lifted us from survival to the middle-class dream.
5 · The Gift of Faith
Faith was Mom’s superpower. When the numbers didn’t add up, she’d fold her hands, whisper Waheguru, and somehow the gap would close. Her prayers were not empty rituals; they were fuel she shared with anyone running on fumes—neighbors, coworkers, total strangers.
In our darkest seasons, she was the first to light a candle and the last to let it burn out. That steady, unflinching belief is the inheritance she leaves us—and the compass I will follow for the rest of my life.
6 · Later Years
Two years ago we heard the words Frontotemporal dementia. I walked out of that clinic and wept like a child; I’d already watched my grandmother fade behind Alzheimer’s. They said the average span was seven years. We didn’t even get that.
Yet even as memories slipped away, her spirit would not surrender. On a trip to Hong Kong after the diagnosis, I surprised her with a birthday celebration at my office. The room erupted in cheers—she responded with five swift Punjabi-mom slaps for startling her. She laughed the loudest, and so did we. If she burst through that door today, I’d welcome a hundred more of those slaps just to feel her strength again.
7 · The Empty Space
Tonight, when the house is still, my thumb will unlock my phone by reflex and hover over FaceTime—believing, for one fragile heartbeat, that I can still dial her. The screen will stay black. That silence is grief’s tax on love; it hurts because she filled every inch of our lives.
Dad will brew two cups of chai before memory stops him; one cup will cool beside an empty chair. And we’ll freeze in doorways, listening for the gentle shuffle of her slippers, until the quiet itself reminds us she has stepped into a room our ears cannot reach—yet.
8 · A Son’s Promise
Mom, I couldn’t give you the decades of ease you earned, but I will carry your wisdom: Love. Faith. Sacrifice. I will teach Veer that true strength is measured by how gently you lift others. I will steady Dad’s hand the way you steadied his. I will pray with the certainty that turned your whispers into walls no hardship could breach.
To everyone here: if her kindness ever touched you, extend it forward—love without ledger, give without waiting, forgive without being asked. That is how her story keeps breathing.
Rest now, Bibi Arjinder Kaur Chahal. Your warrior’s journey is finished; but your legacy is forever.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2W7p358uIy8