Whispers of a Forgotten Fragrance

Elesaar Perfume Blog Series 1

“Some scents don’t just linger on your skin.
They travel through your memories — and never quite leave.”

The Ever Smiling Parsi Lady

She was Faridoon’s mother — my college friend.

We became close because we both believed in something that felt almost old-fashioned…
honest products, honest trade, honest profits.

Fariba Aunty, was always kind to me. Genuinely warm. But I think she began taking me seriously when she sensed I wasn’t joking about wanting to build my own business — one that stood for something.

And then, one morning, as I sat at her dining table, staring at a breakfast that looked like it belonged in a film — buttery akuri, soft ladi pav, raspberry soda in short glasses, and toast that had the right kind of burn — I realized, again…

It wasn’t the food that stayed with me.

It was the fragrance she wore.

Fariba Aunty's Story

She always wore the same scent. I had always liked it. But that day, something shifted.

“Aunty, what perfume is this?”

She smiled — not just with her lips, but with her entire face.

“Not perfume, beta. Itra. My father made it. I wore it.
Faridoon’s father, Feroz… he loved it.”

She paused, spoon in hand, eyes suddenly softer.

“When Feroz and I first met, I was wearing this. I wore it again on our wedding day.
And when he was… in his final days…
even when he couldn’t open his eyes anymore —
he would smile the moment I entered the room.
He didn’t see me. He didn’t hear me.
He just knew — by the smell.”

Then she looked at me again — lighter now, as if she’d just travelled a long way and come back.

“Not a perfume. Not a product.
It’s a presence.
A story of love.”

For a few seconds, she was quiet.

And then — just like that — she was back to herself.
Effervescent. Laughing. Scooping more food onto my plate without asking.

“Do you want it in your product list?” she asked, out of nowhere. “I know you want it.
But before you put your hands on the best, you must also smell what the world calls perfume today.
Only then will you understand what deserves to be called real.
I shall help you in this.”

And just like that —
she became the first product tester of Elesaar,
which, at the time, wasn’t even born.

The Fragrance That Made Roses Feel Incomplete

Aunty had this way of walking into a space without interrupting it.

But after a while, the air around her would change —
not with noise, not with talk,
but with sandalwood and something unspoken.

And she never explained it —
because you don’t explain what you’ve already lived.

She gifted me, too, her most loved gift — the itra, the presence.

I once wore it while walking with Priya in a rose garden… and she asked me:

“Does she never change it?”

I smiled, maybe a little too knowingly.

“Why would she? Feroz liked this.
He never needed to look for her.
He smelled her.
Isn’t that enough?”

And then, quietly:

“Do you realize, Priya…
Your nose follows the smell I wear
more than your eyes follow me.
Should I stop wearing it?”

Priya held my hand as we walked through the rose market.
I knew — she knew — the itra smelled better than the fresh roses.

She softly said:

“Elesaar should play Aunty’s role in the commerce world.
It will make her happy.
It will make Elesaar complete.
It will make our coming generations proud.”

I just looked at her.

Because the way Priya spoke —
it wasn’t the desire caused by modern-day perfumes.

It was the devotion of erstwhile years.

And in that moment, I knew —
Elesaar will explore the best of perfumes and bring it to the world.
Slowly. Honestly. Completely.

The Search for the Perfume That Doesn't Shout

Some journeys don’t begin at railway stations.

They begin in living rooms — with someone’s story.

And once that story enters your breath, your skin, your thought… you don’t stay still.

I couldn’t.

I began meeting people who had worn perfume long before social media discovered “signature scents.”

Some told me they still wore attar from their Dada’s wooden cupboard.
Some told me they stopped wearing any scent at all — “because nothing smells like it used to.”

And some — a few — whispered names. Not brand names.
Distiller names. Village names. Seasons.

They didn’t say “saffron” — they said, “He distills it only in winter, after the third frost.”
They didn’t say “jasmine” — they said, “She makes it only after her husband finishes his harvest.”

This was perfume without vocabulary — but full of memory.

I had stepped into the quiet network of scent keepers.
Unlisted. Untagged. Unspoken.

The Man with the Bottle That Smelled Like His Silence

In Kannauj, I met a man who didn’t speak much.

He offered me a small bottle without asking what I wanted.

It looked old.
Faded label.
No date.

But when I opened it —
It didn’t hit me.

It held me.

It was like meeting someone who knew me already.

“Ismein kuch daala hai?” I asked.

He shook his head, smiled, and then said…

“Waqt daala hai.”

I didn’t know whether he was talking about the bottle or his life.
But both smelled the same — deep, still, honest.

And I heard Fariba Aunty’s voice in my head again:

“Don’t be fooled by what shouts.”

They Gave Me Secrets, Not Samples

I kept moving — Bengal, Hyderabad, the back lanes of Bhopal, the Sundarbans.
I never asked for the best perfume. I just said: “Tell me about the one that stays.”

And people did.

Some gave me scents that had no names, only seasons.
Some gave me bottles that had no logos, only stories.

And when I asked, “Do you sell this?”
They’d shrug: “To someone like you… maybe.”

And Then… I Smelled Her Again

There was one Itra I opened — in Udaipur,
somewhere in a courtyard by the lake, in the stillness of the afternoon.
The table had food, and the wind was sharp,
and maybe — just maybe — the heat, the air, even the light… all conspired.

The scent didn’t just rise.

It arrived.

And I swear, I smelled Fariba Aunty.

Not just the sandalwood.
Not just the musk.

Her.

The breakfast table.
The raspberry soda.
The plate tilting in her hand as she poured more love into my life.

And before I could stop myself, I laughed — and maybe cried a little.

Because I knew:

This one would have made her nod in approval.

And in that moment, I whispered to myself:

“Elesaar… you’re getting close.”

Elesaar Perfume Blog Series

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