How low-cost attar outsells perfume in Bangladesh

The lane behind Dhaka's Baitul Mukarram mosque wakes up early. Before the first cup of tea cools, glass vials of amber oil stand in neat rows, throwing off woody, honey-sweet notes that cling to the morning heat. This is attar-small, concentrated oils that cost less than a plate of biryani yet linger long after the noon azan.

"People here won't skip their prayer beads or their attar," laughs Mohammad Habib, who has sold nothing but oils for twenty years in Boro Katara, Old Dhaka. "A 3-ml bottle starts at fifty taka or in many cases even less. Even a day-labourer can smell like sandalwood without burning his pocket," he said.

Bangladeshis love fragrance, but their wallets tell the real story. International perfumes-spray-on, alcohol-based, heavily branded, start at 2,000 taka and climb fast. In a country where the average monthly income is not beyond 20 thousand taka, that is a tall order. Therefore, the market tends toward miniature glass vials with plastic stoppers or rollers, often filled by hand in front of the buyer.

Yet, price is only half the pull. There is nostalgia at work too. Oil-based scents have wandered these lands for centuries, brought by Sufi travellers and Mughal traders.

A dab of oudh or rose on the wrist folds prayer, memory, and a sense of hometown pride into one quick swipe.

Syeda Tanha, an officegoer from Chawkbazar, Dhaka, who keeps a vial tucked in her handbag, puts it plainly, "My grandmother dotted jasmine oil behind her ears before every festival. Why should I break the chain just because billboards shout 'Eau de Parfum' in French?"

Perfume sellers, of course, see things differently. In an upscale corner of Gulshan DCC Market, glass shelves glow under soft LED lights, stacked with names that promise Parisian evenings.

"We sell aspiration," says Shafayet Rahman, manager of a boutique that rarely rings up a bottle below 5,500 taka. "But even aspiration has to face rent day. Lately, customers sniff, smile, and then ask for something cheaper. We can't fight economics."

Some shops now market 'pocket perfumes', 10-ml sprays priced under 700 taka to bridge the gap. They do move, but nowhere near the velocity of attar.

A kilogram of concentrated oil yields thousands of vials, keeping margins cushy even after intermediaries take their bite. Lower overhead feeds a self-reinforcing cycle. Cheap means ubiquitous; ubiquitous means normal; normal means safe to buy.

Longevity also tips the scales. In Bangladesh's humid climate, alcohol-based sprays evaporate in a heartbeat. Oils sink into skin, blooming slowly as the day heats up.

Imran Hossain, a CNG-based autorickshaw driver who drives for twelve hours straight, swears by a lemon-musk blend that costs him just 60 taka per 3ml bottle.

"Four dabs at dawn and I still smell fresh when I head home," he says, tapping the tiny bottle in his shirt pocket. "A spray perfume? Gone before my third passenger."

Religious comfort plays a quiet but steady role. Many traditional Muslims prefer oils because they contain no alcohol. Friday shoppers drift into attar stalls after prayers, pick a vial, and stroll out shoulder to shoulder with imams who do the same. The ritual blurs the line between grooming and devotion.

Still, a slice of urban youth leans the other way. "I like the crisp burst of a designer citrus," says Sahariar Biddut, a 28-year-old sales executive who saves two months' allowance for a 50-ml bottle each Eid. "It's my small rebellion against the predictable smells at family gatherings." For him, brand names carry a sheen of global belonging-Instagram stories over iftar tables, a whisper of Paris or Milan in a Dhaka office lift.

But even Sahariar admits that practicality wins on regular days.

Nazmul Hasan Bappy, a businessman who toggles between both mediums, explains the math, "For meetings, I rely on a mid-range perfume, first impressions, you know. But my gym bag and ride-share commutes get a pocket of attar. At two taka per dab, I'm not crying if it spills." That mix-and-match habit is spreading among young professionals who refuse to choose one tribe.

Wholesale markets notice in Dhaka's Armanitola, fragrance trader Md. Rafi points to cardboard cartons stamped 'Made in UAE' piled two meters high. "Five years ago, I imported two varieties of attar," he says. "Now I keep twelve, fruity ones for teens, heavy oudh for uncles." He pauses to add, with a grin, "I still stock some European sprays. They gather dust usually."

The government's import duties also make life easier for oil sellers. Foreign perfumes are subject to taxes of up to 150.91 per cent.

Attar, often blended regionally, slips under lower brackets. That fiscal gap widens the street-price canyon and nudges everyday buyers toward oils without a second thought.

Cultural storytelling ties the bow. Television dramas often depict village elders pressing a dot of attar onto a newborn's blanket; folk singers exchange tiny vials before taking the stage.

Perfume rarely lands such cameos. Sumon Hossain, a 32-year-old teacher from Dhamrai, Savar, sums it up between two classes, "Attar is ours. Perfume is a guest."

Yet markets never freeze. Rising disposable income, remittance-driven malls, and social media influencers could shift preferences toward atomisers in the coming decade.

If inflation cools and counterfeit policing improves, mid-tier perfume might nibble at attar's kingdom. But even then, experts doubt a coup. Scent, after all, is identity pinned to memory. And Bangladeshi memory smells like the first monsoon rain hitting a warm courtyard, earthy, a little sweet, unmistakably close to home.

So, where exactly do people in Dhaka obtain these Attars? That's a fun one to answer. Walk down just about any major road these days, even the packed, honking, bus-rattled ones, and you'll spot a cart or two selling tiny glass vials filled with heady, amber-hued oils.

They're on footpaths, outside mosques, near universities, almost as if they've become part of the city's soundscape.

These days, big malls in Dhaka give Attar its spotlight. "People now ask for oud, amber, musk by name," said Al Ra'of Perfumes' owner.

And then there's the online scene, which has experienced rapid growth. "We started small, just trying to bring authentic Western blends to local buyers who couldn't get them easily," said Arafat Hossain from Roza Fragrance, an online-based Attar seller. "Now we're shipping to all corners of the country."

Mitford's Road and Armanitola Church Road aren't just random old parts of Old Dhaka-they're the epicentre of Attar.

Md. Rashedul, who runs Khalees Perfume, said, " They're remembering it pretty straight. This place moves litres of Attar every day. Retailers from all over come here because we know the blends, and we know the buyers."

Habit, heritage, and a price tag that hugs the average wallet form a trio hard to topple. As long as vials stay small and paychecks stay modest, Bangladesh will continue to reach for oils-dab by fragrant dab, proof that luxury is sometimes nothing more than affordability wrapped in culture.

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