Funeral Tribute for Amba Mohlajee (Omi Uncle)
Delivered with Love and Remembrance
Ladies and Gentlemen,
We gather here today with heavy hearts — and full hearts —
to honour the life of a man who was, in the truest sense, extraordinary.
To many of you, he was Amba Mohlajee. To us, he was Omi
Uncle. And to a cherished few in our close-knit family circle, he was lovingly
known as Billa. But to me, he was much more than an uncle. He was a
constant — a compass, a confidant, and, in many quiet ways, a hero.
Born the youngest son of my grandfather, Mohan Lal Mohlajee,
Omi Uncle was the apple of everyone's eye — the pampered youngest, yes — but
also the one who grew into a pillar of strength, wisdom, and quiet grace. He
had a way of showing up for people — not loudly, not with fanfare — but with
presence, care, and unwavering affection.
As a husband to the ever-elegant Jyotsna Mohlajee, he set a
standard that few could match. In her, he found his partner, his equal, and his
purpose — and he supported her in every way a man can, with tenderness and
dignity, right to the end.
He was a devoted son, a deeply respectful brother, and a
doting father to his beloved daughters, Ambika and Anjali. And as a
grandfather, his heart expanded yet again — showering love on his
granddaughters, whose lives he brightened in ways both big and small. But what
stood out most — to me and to so many — was his reverence for his elder
brothers, and especially for Mahender Mohlajee. He did not just love Mahender
Bhaiya — he worshipped him. His soul, I believe, bore a quiet crack
after his brother’s untimely passing. And yet, with stoic strength, he carried
on — for his family, for us.
I was the first-born child of our generation in the Mohlajee
family. Maybe because of that, or maybe because of his enormous heart, he
always kept me close — embracing my faults as easily as he celebrated my little
victories. He had an elegance that was impossible to ignore. That aquiline
nose, the perfectly twirled moustache, the sharp clothes that somehow defied
the heat and dust of India — even after a long commute on local trains, he’d
arrive in crisp whites, spotless, regal.
He was witty — never biting. Humorous — never harsh. He made
us laugh, but more importantly, he made us feel seen. Even in his last
two years, when illness took its toll, he never let go of his lightness. It was
his shield, his gift.
He lived with Type 1 diabetes all his life — and triumphed.
Not merely survived, but thrived. He played tennis and golf well into his 70s —
maybe even longer — and always managed to make the rest of us look like
slackers.
His garden was a piece of his soul. Not just a plot of land,
but a living extension of who he was — generous, nurturing, quietly radiant.
Fruits, vegetables, flowers — all grown not just for sustenance, but for
sharing. That was his way. A silent offering of love.
And that generosity travelled far and wide. I remember when
my youngest son arrived in the U.S., nervous and new to everything. Omi
Chachaji opened his doors and his arms. Sandwiches, a full tank of gas, a few
extra dollars discreetly slipped in, and the kind of warm, fatherly advice that
can only come from someone who truly understands love without condition.
He gave, and gave, and gave — never counting, never asking.
That was his essence.
And so today, even as we grieve, we celebrate. We celebrate
a life well-lived, and a love well-given. We carry forward his laughter, his
elegance, his kindness. We keep alive his memory every time we care for a
plant, share a joke, welcome someone into our home, or simply put others before
ourselves.
Dearest Omi Uncle — your voice, your smile, your presence
will echo through our lives, always. In moments of silence, in bursts of joy,
in threads of family you helped weave so beautifully.
May your soul attain Nirvana. And may your memory bloom
eternally in every heart that you’ve touched.
Thank you.
Ajaya Sharma Mohlajee
