And then, without warning, the scent of my childhood was everywhere. Somewhere between social media and artisanal perfumers, oudh became aspirational. When Tom Ford launched Oud Wood in 2007, a shift began. A scent long tied to Middle Eastern and South Asian traditions entered the Western luxury lexicon, setting off a ripple effect. The oudh extracts market alone is projected to reach $2.66 billion by 2028, with a compound annual growth rate of 8.9 per cent.
The same fragrance profile I once distanced myself from is now bottled into $400 (₹35,000) perfumes, a marker of sophistication. Roberto Cavalli’s Divine Oud. Oud Satin Mood by Maison Francis Kurkdjian. Oud Ispahan by Dior. Repackaged, rebranded and reclaimed—except not by me, not yet.
According to Abdulla Ajmal, CEO of Ajmal Perfumes, international fragrance houses have been reinterpreting oudh for over a decade, sometimes using real oudh but more often creating an ‘oudh accord’ with saffron, rose, leather and vanilla. This makes the scent more accessible but also dilutes its meaning. Traditionally, oudh symbolises spirituality, wealth and heritage. The resinous heartwood of the Aquilaria tree, found in abundance in Assam, has been used for centuries in religious ceremonies, meditation and old-school perfumery.
Yet, its reinvention isn’t necessarily a loss—it has introduced new audiences to its depth, ones who may eventually seek the real thing. I am one of them, moving from hesitant traces to something bolder, learning to embrace what I once kept at arm’s length. When my sister and I smelled the Fenty perfume for the first time, a rich woody-rose tickled my nose and we exchanged a knowing look. “This smells so Dubai,” we both thought. But this time, I didn’t shrink away from it.
Oudh burrows into my memory, unlocking the past in an instant, what psychologists call the Proustian effect. Marcel Proust discovered it in a madeleine; for me, it lingers in this fragrance, carrying the warmth of…
