Manjeet Kaur Muhar, beloved daughter of Satpal Singh Muhar and Gursharan Kaur Muhar, was born in Rupowali, Gurdaspur, Punjab, India. She held a master’s degree in economics and was a lecturer in Punjab, a path she could have continued when she immigrated to San Jose, California, in the 1990s. But she made a different choice—a quieter, greater one as life took her elsewhere.
In 2006, when she moved to Great Falls, Montana, with her husband, Harinder Singh Seerha, and daughter, Hareen Kaur Seerha, she created not just a home, but a foundation of love and strength—one filled with warmth, laughter, and the quiet resilience that defined her. It was a place where her faith and culture would not be reflected back to her in the streets, in the faces of neighbors, in the voices of strangers. But she carried so much light within her that the world around her softened. Even in a place that should have felt unfamiliar, she was instantly home—because she made others feel at home too. She made sure her daughter knew where she came from, made sure she carried it like armor, like prayer, like breath itself. She became the kind of mother who made the whole world feel open, expansive, possible. She was the one who showed up first and left last, the quiet architect of others’ success. If they stand today, if they have built something of their own, it is because she was the ground beneath them—steady, unwavering, always there.
She was the glue—of her family, of her siblings, of every room she walked into. To be near her was to feel tethered to something strong and certain, a force both gentle and unshakable. Her siblings—Simarjeet Kaur Gill, Nirmaljeet Kaur Pannu, Kuljeet Kaur Chabbewal, and Sandeep Singh Muhar—knew this best. She was the center of gravity, the one who remembered every birthday, who smoothed every sharp edge with a laugh, whose love ran so deep it was felt before it was spoken.
She worked as a lab technician at Benefis until January 2022, when she was diagnosed with glioblastoma multiforme. And still, she never let the weight of her illness dictate the brightness of her spirit. There is a word in Sikhi: Chardi Kala. It is a state of relentless optimism, of unwavering faith and joy even in the face of hardship. Manjeet lived in Chardi Kala—not because life was easy, but because she knew that love was greater than pain, that faith could soften even the sharpest edges of suffering.
Even in her final years, she sought joy like a devotion. She spent her days in prayer and in conversations about Sikhi, her faith not a doctrine but a quiet, steady current guiding her forward. She walked in the sun, cross-stitched delicate patterns into fabric, tested new recipes with the excitement of a scientist in her own kitchen, and painted, not because the world needed another artist, but because creation is a form of love. She traveled with her husband and daughter, holding each moment like a pearl between her fingers, knowing time was slipping but refusing to let it steal the beauty of now.
She was never a woman of extravagance. Her joys were found in the simplest things—a coffee date with her daughter, her husband's laughter filling the house as they watched a movie, a warm meal shared in quiet comfort. And yet, she built something grand. A community. A family bound not just by blood but by the sheer gravity of her love. During her final days, people poured in—not out of duty, but because she had given them so much love, they needed to return even a fraction of it. They gathered around her, drawn to the quiet radiance she carried. And even as her body grew tired, her spirit remained unshaken. She carried love in her eyes until the very end.
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