In Search of a Lost Smell

(Magical potions of fragrances from personal collection, Attar)

During my childhood, a Muslim religious scholar who sang Padappat—the Islamic war songs cherished in Malabar, Kerala— visited our house in Sullia. Many of these songs were composed by Moin Kutty Vaidyar (1857–1892), one of the most celebrated poets in the Malabar Muslim literary tradition. Their themes moved through the lives and legends of important figures in Islam, carrying history, devotion, and melody together in one long luminous current. I still remember him as a towering man, trained in martial arts, with an extraordinary voice—deep, powerful, and impossible to forget. He was from Kannur district, as was my father, and the two knew each other well. Whenever he came to perform at the annual Uroos organized by the Hadrami Sufi family of our region, the Adoor Aattu Thangals, he would stay in our small house in Sullia. For us children, his visits were nothing short of a festival entering the house itself. We would beg him to sing, and he never refused. We loved, most of all, the way he sang about Hazrat Hamza, the Prophet’s companion and uncle, gliding with ease between melodies and subtle modulations of the voice. Before leaving for Adoor, where he would perform for nearly ten days, he would stay with us. When the programme ended, he would often return and spend some more time at our home. Later, my father told me that his performances were immensely appreciated. Audiences loved him, and even Adoor Aattu Thangal praised his singing. The only complaint, apparently, was that people wished he had sung more.

Whenever he visited, he carried a small bottle of attar. It had a strong, distinctive fragrance unlike anything I had encountered before. He told us he had bought it during Hajj and that it had cost him a great deal of money. The attar was called Amber. He explained that it was associated with the Kaaba or the Hajar al-Aswad; I no longer remember the exact details. My memory is that it was either the fragrance used on the Kiswa of the Kaaba or some scent connected to it. He also told us that amber was obtained from a fish and was among the rarest ingredients used in perfumery. I remember hearing the word oud from him as well. I must have been in third or fourth standard at the time. What remains most vivid in my mind, however, is the smell itself. Even now, it stands before me with startling clarity. One day, as he was preparing to leave, he called together my father, my mother, my younger brother, and me. Then, to our astonishment, he placed the bottle of that attar in our hands. He told us that it was dearer to him than his own family, yet he felt compelled to give it to us. He asked us not to share it with anyone and to keep it only for our own use.

I was in heaven. From that day onward, I wore it every day. My school uniform, my shirts, almost everything I owned, carried its fragrance. The attar was dark and thick, and some of my white shirts were stained by it. The bottle stayed with us for a long time. Once, while I was applying it, some of it spilled onto the floor, and the whole house filled with its scent as though the walls themselves had begun to breathe it in. At that age, I did not understand the value of that attar, or of attars in general. I used to see many attars and perfumes at home, either bought by my father or gifted by relatives returning from the Gulf. For most people of my generation, and even for earlier ones, the memory of perfume and attar was tied tightly to the Gulf and to Hajj. Jannathul Firdaus, Majmua, jasmine attars, and Brut perfume are among the earliest fragrances I remember, each one carrying its own small world.

Eventually, I stopped using attar altogether. Some classmates complained that the fragrances I wore gave them headaches. Looking back, I doubt it was the amber attar itself; it was probably one of the jasmine or floral attars we also kept at home. Still, I gradually abandoned the habit. I do not know exactly when I began using attar again. During my undergraduate days, I started visiting Calicut more often, especially the Markaz Commercial Complex. The complex had several shops known for selling attars and agarwood to Arabs. Whenever I went there, I saw Arabs moving in and out of those shops, though I cannot recall buying any attars myself. Instead, I usually returned with armfuls of books, for the area was also crowded with bookshops, and books, too, were another kind of fragrance to me then—paper, ink, dust, possibility.

Years later, while pursuing my master’s degree at the University of Hyderabad, my interest in attars was rekindled. My classmate Faseeh Ahmed was deeply passionate about fragrances. Together, we explored the attar shops of the city, sampling and buying different scents while simultaneously working on our master’s thesis about the informal tourist guides of Golconda Fort. We were both drawn to rich, musky, intense fragrances—scents that did not merely touch the skin but seemed to settle into the memory of the body. Around the same time, I received a gift that I still remember vividly. One of our seniors, Nuaiman, owned a horn-shaped metallic attar bottle that always caught my eye whenever I visited his apartment. One day, he invited me for lunch. After hours of conversation and a delicious meal, as I was about to leave, he called me back inside and gifted me that very bottle. I used it regularly. Over time, however, I stopped noticing its smell, even though I wore it every day. Then one day my classmate Sai visited my hostel room, smelled the bottle, and said, “Oh, this is your regular smell!” I was stunned. I had never realised that people associated me with a particular fragrance.

After that, I became protective of the little attar that remained in the bottle. Some friends called me the “attar-smelling guy”—they meant it affectionately—while others disliked the fragrance, especially those who suffered from migraines. I began buying more attars. And yet the amber remained in memory like an unanswered call. That was when the search truly began. I bought several attars called Amber, hoping to recover the fragrance of my childhood. None of them matched. I bought dark-coloured attars because I thought the colour might be a clue, as though scent might be hidden inside shade. I received attars as gifts and gifted them in return. But the scent I was searching for continued to recede, always just beyond the reach of the nose, always half-remembered and half-lost.

The place of attars and fragrance in Muslim life is well known. Muslim historical and devotional literature contains numerous descriptions of the fragrance of the Prophet Muhammad, who is remembered as the best-smelling of men. The Prophet himself cherished fragrance and counted it among the things he loved. Hagiographers often describe his scent as resembling a blend of musk and amber. Because of this, amber has a long and meaningful history. Friends often tell me that if someone gifts us fragrance, we should never refuse it. Attar remains a favourite gift among many Muslims precisely because it is rarely rejected. Some classical Islamic scholars even argued that spending money on fragrance, even substantial amounts, is not extravagance. Perhaps that is why, even when I am completely broke, I sometimes buy attars thinking they might bring barakah into my life.

After I began working and later started my PhD, I searched more seriously. For the first time, I had some money to spend on this pursuit. I ordered attars from Kannauj, Gujarat, Bombay, Calicut, and wherever else I could afford. I tried countless amber attars and several versions of Kiswatul Kaaba, convinced that one of them would somehow awaken the childhood fragrance sleeping in memory. None did.

Some friends carried small bottles of attar in their pockets and would gift me a little whenever we met. Hafis KT, a friend who is like an elder brother to me, was one such person. After my master’s degree, I spent a year in Calicut for work. During that period, I began buying many bottles, though always within a modest budget. Whenever I came across an attar shop, I would often buy a small bottle simply as a gesture of affection toward the shop itself. My friend Saleem Yunus used to say that his dream was to own a small attar shop where people could walk in, receive a little fragrance, and leave happy. Whenever we meet someone who shares such interests, a special kind of friendship emerges—an intimacy built not only on words, but also on shared scents, shared tastes, shared longing.

(Gafoor Bhai's Attar shop, Calicut)

When I began my PhD, I became even more serious about attars. Ayesha Mualla, who joined the PhD programme with me, was exceptionally knowledgeable about fragrances. She gifted me some of the finest attars I have ever owned, including frankincense, which remains one of my favourites. She had a remarkable appreciation for high-quality oud and fragrance in general. When I told Ayesha the story of the childhood amber, she suggested that it might have been a variety of Shamamatul Amber, a famous attar distilled in Kannauj for centuries. Recently, while browsing different attars online, I came across an Amber sold by a shop in Bangladesh. I became restless. I searched for it in India but could not find it anywhere. Hoping for a miracle, I contacted a friend from Bangladesh who studies at Delhi University. We had met at a conference in Malaysia and had shared a room there.

I sent him the link and asked whether he could help me obtain it. The very next day, he sent me a photograph of the bottle he had already purchased and kept aside for me. I hope that when I meet him, I will finally receive it. God alone knows whether it is the fragrance I have been searching for. Even if it is not, I am certain it will not disappoint me, as most attars do not. I still believe that the fragrance may exist somewhere, perhaps in the Gulf countries. Every now and then I come across similarly named fragrances from well-known attar houses, and each discovery briefly rekindles the hope I thought had settled down.

What saddens me most is that we eventually lost touch with the man who gave us that precious gift. We knew him as Abdul Kareem Malwana. I do not know whether he is still alive. At some point, my father heard, perhaps through someone else, that he was working as an auto driver somewhere. Beyond that, we know nothing. The connection simply disappeared, leaving behind only the fragrance and the ache of its disappearance.

Smell memory is extraordinarily powerful. My friend Mashkoor once told me that smell is the first sense through which we make sense of the world. He gave the example of how a baby recognizes its mother by smell. We all recognize people, events, and memories through smell—whether it is fragrance, sweat, food, or the scent of particular places. Certain smells summon happiness; others bring sadness or a quiet melancholy. There are two smells that still make me slightly melancholic. One is ginger. During my childhood, I suffered from typhoid fever during ginger season, and there was ginger stored throughout our house. Even today, the smell can suddenly return me to that period with startling force. The second memory comes from the COVID years. During isolation, I spent several lonely days alone in my room. That room had a distinct smell. Sometimes, when I recall it, I become quiet for a while, as though the room has entered the body again.

Recently, I attended a book talk in Delhi wearing a high-quality oud from Kannauj. It is the kind of Indian oud appreciated by a niche audience. During the event, a friend stood behind my chair and later sent me a text message. He wrote that when he came near me, my fragrance reminded him of a living Sufi scholar. I was delighted. His message was, in essence, that I smelled like him. At the same time, I felt that such a comparison might be bad adab toward that Sufi. Still, I was pleased by the compliment and by the quality of the oud I was wearing.

There are many friends who admire attars, and through fragrance, we share a distinctive bond. Yet I am still searching for that attar. If I ever meet Abdul Kareem Malwana again, the first question I will ask him will be about the fragrance he gifted us all those years ago. Some nights I try to imagine its smell. I still carry the memory of it within me, and I do not believe I have forgotten it. Even today, I can confidently say of many fragrances: this is not it. I remain hopeful that one day I will find it again and surprise my mother with the Amber attar that was her favourite too.

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Mahammad Ali Jauhar

Jauhar is a Doctoral research scholar at the Department of Sociology, Shiv Nadar University. He is interested in sociology of religion and theology. Jauhar is also part of the editorial team of two webportals, one in Malayalam which is Tibaq(tibaq.in) and in Kannada language Thijori(thijori.in). Both this magazines focuses on translating philosophy, anthropology, art works into regional language along with original works.