The Quiet Departure: How we lose, how we love, how we remember

By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], July 22 (ANI): "Ab meri matki phoot gayi, bhala hua main paani bharan se chhoot gayi." (Now my pot has broken -- good, for I am freed of carrying water.)
Kabir said it centuries ago, and still his words fall softly into the silence we feel when someone leaves us. They remind us that in the end, the work of this world is done, the load is laid down, the chores are over -- and we are free.
And yet, those of us left behind still thirst.
When the news came that Pankaj Sahni -- barely in his fifties, yet already a giant in spirit -- had passed away in his sleep, it arrived as all grief does: suddenly and silently, a stillness that swallows sound. In that moment, the world felt emptier. He, who carried so much beauty, so much love, so much grace, was gone.
We tell ourselves that to die in one's sleep is the gentlest way to go. Perhaps it is, for the one who goes. But for those who stay awake after, it is still cruel. Because love is never ready. Love is never finished. Love always asks for one more moment.
Pankaj lived his life the way the Sufis sing of love -- intoxicated yet humble, drunk on beauty yet full of care. In him you could see the spirit of that ancient verse:
"Haman hai ishq mastana, haman ko hoshiyari kya
Rahein aazad yaa jag se, haman ko yaar-i-kya"
(I am drunk on love -- what need have I of caution?
Bound or free of this world -- what care have I for its friendship?)
He lived as if he belonged to something larger than himself -- the quiet currents of art and family and friendship that swept through his life like a river. He did not clutch at glory. He did not clamor for attention. He simply carried his pot of water -- his responsibilities, his love, his work -- and filled others' cups without complaint.
Through Artoholics, through his collaborations at Dhoomimal Art Centre and Saffronart, through the countless artists and collectors he connected, he became more than a gallerist. He became a custodian of beauty, a steward of trust. His eye was keen, but his heart was kinder. He believed that art wasn't just about possession -- it was about connection. And so he helped others find not just pieces of art, but pieces of themselves.
He was tall in height, taller still in his quiet character. Handsome, athletic, gracious -- yet never vain. In his presence you felt at home. Even as a boy, sitting at the back of the school bus with the seniors, his laugh rang louder than the rest -- not because it was forced, but because it was free.
"Haman hai ishq mastana, haman ko aaraam kya
Jo khud se bhi para ho, usey jag ka salaam kya"
(I am drunk on love -- what need have I of rest?
One who is beyond himself, what use has he for the world's praise?)
This was his way. He worked without seeking applause. He gave without keeping count. He helped without keeping score. At his son's wedding in Goa, you could feel it -- the way every hall, every villa, every smile shimmered with his warmth, his camaraderie, his quiet care.
And then one night, while the rest of us still dreamed of more time, his own pot slipped from his hands.
""Ab meri matki phoot gayi..."
(Now my pot has broken.)
We say this of those we lose -- that they are finally free. And perhaps they are. But the ones left carrying the weight of their absence? We are not free.
This is the paradox of loss. That even when the departure is dignified, even when it is gentle, even when it comes in the quiet of night, it still wounds. Because love is not ready to let go.
And yet love is what teaches us how to live with loss.
Pankaj's story is his own, but it is also all of ours. Because we all have someone we've lost this way -- suddenly, silently, with no goodbye. A husband, a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a friend. Someone who left quietly while our hearts cried out. And when we mourn him, we mourn them too.
In mourning him, we remember what love costs -- and why it is worth it.
Because love, like art, is fragile and forever at once. You cannot hold it too tight, and you cannot let it go completely. You can only cherish it while it lasts.
Pankaj cherished it. He lived a life of quiet greatness. He left behind not just memories but lessons -- that perfection isn't the point, presence is. That caution isn't the point, connection is. That we are all, in the end, just carriers of water -- but we can choose to carry it beautifully.
Even his leaving feels like a lesson -- in grace, in humility, in how to slip from the world with dignity.
He reminds us: when the pot breaks, the water still seeps into the earth. When the breath leaves, the love remains.
"Haman hai ishq mastana, haman ko fikr-e-kya
Jo rooh se juda ho, usey jism ki fikr kya"
(I am drunk on love -- what need have I of worry?
One who has left his soul behind, what care has he for his body?)
This is how Pankaj lived. This is how he left.
And so we sit here in our grief, yet we know it is also our gratitude. That we even knew someone worth missing this much is itself a blessing. That our pain is proof of our love.
For his family, his friends, his colleagues -- for all of us -- the world feels dimmer without him. But his light is not gone. It burns in his doting wife and children, in the artists he nurtured, in the collectors he guided, in the friends who loved him, in the family who adored him.
And so we carry his light from here. We fill our own pots and pour them into others, the way he taught us.
Because love is always worth it. Even knowing it will end, we keep choosing it.
"Haman hai ishq mastana, haman ko hooshiyari kya
Rahein aazad yaa jag se, haman ko yaar-i-kya"
(We are drunk on love -- what need have we of caution?
Bound or free of this world -- what care have we for its friendship?)
Rest gently, Pankaj. You were loved. You are missed. You remain.
We'll carry your light from here. (ANI/ Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.