Oud: How an ancient scent now dominates modern perfume aisles

Names like Oud Kalakas, Dehn Al Oudh Abiyad, Oud Cambodi, Sheikh Al Shuyukh, Oud Mood, Bade'e Al Oud, and Oud Hindi—do these sound familiar? Yes, and for good reason. Once cherished mainly by elders or reserved for special religious occasions, these raw oud perfumes are now part of everyday wear, turning what was once tradition into a trend. And Bangladesh is no exception here.

There's a specific thickness in the air when someone walks by wearing oud. It isn't just a scent, it's a signature. For many, it lingers like a whisper of wealth; for others, it's a cultural revival or simply a bold olfactory preference.

Whatever the case, oud perfumes, once considered niche, high-end Arabian luxuries, are now becoming mainstream in Bangladesh, where consumer preferences are evolving rapidly. But this rise in popularity isn't just about smelling 'expensive.' It's about identity, presence, endurance, and even resistance.

The growing fascination with oud cannot be disconnected from cultural memory, symbolic associations, and shifting markets.

Psychoanalytically, the appeal of oud resonates with the concept of scent as a trigger for unconscious memory and desire, a notion extensively discussed by Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams and further explored in Gaston Bachelard's The Poetics of Space.

In The Cultural Politics of Emotion by Sara Ahmed, the sensory appeal of certain fragrances is linked to community and belonging. Abu Shahed Khan from Chwkbazar, Dhaka, put it, "I go for oud-based attars because they just have that classy, almost royal kind of smell."

For him, it's not just about the scent, it's something more profound. His father wore it. His uncles did too. So when he dabs a little on, it's not just about smelling good. It's a nod to family tradition, a sign of pride. "We've got a bit of a name in this area," he added, "and oud kind of fits that vibe."

Strip away the literature and theories, and what's left is something both simple and layered. Oud is intense, yes. It lasts for hours. Mohammad Aslam, a perfume seller from Mitford Tower, said, "Most of the recent purchases of Oud-based perfumes or Attars are for their long-lasting experience." So it's also about making a statement that I am here, I am grounded, and I have a sense of style.

The global perfume industry has long favoured soft florals and citrusy freshness, especially in mainstream Western brands.

Oud cuts across that. It's resinous, animalic, sometimes smoky. It demands attention. And in places like Dhaka, Chattogram, or Sylhet, where climate, social behaviour, and religious undertones play into grooming practices, oud fits right in.

It endures the heat, it resists the chaos of city life, and it complements the ceremonial, spiritual, or social moments where fragrance still carries cultural weight.

Oud, historically, wasn't cheap. The real deal—agarwood—costs thousands of dollars per kilogram. That rarity gave it a halo effect; wearing oud meant you were rich, connected, maybe even royal. But brands like Lattafa, Afnan, Rasasi, Ard Al Zaafaran, and Ahmed Al Maghribi flipped the script.

They brought oud-inspired blends to the masses without cheapening the experience too much. "A few years back, real oud was out of reach unless you had deep pockets. Now, for 1,500 to 5,000 taka, people can smell like they paid 20 times more. That changes everything," says a Shimanto Square-based perfume reseller.

Suddenly, a young man in Mirpur or a banker in Gulshan could wear something that hinted at Dubai's perfumed corridors for the price of a local dinner. This availability doesn't just satisfy the ego; it shifts consumer expectations.

Now, people want longevity. They want projection. They want complexity. And they can get it without spending 25,000 taka on a French designer bottle.

From a philosophical lens, oud's rise also mirrors the tension between modernity and rootedness. Many perfumes are ephemeral; they speak of freedom, flight, and abstraction. Oud, by contrast, is grounded. It doesn't pretend to float. It clings. It is earth, smoke, time. This is perhaps why it pulsates so intensely in cultures where identity is continuously negotiated—where tradition and aspiration co-exist, often uncomfortably.

In Bangladesh, where Western consumer culture battles for space with religious, local, and pan-Islamic sensibilities, oud becomes more than just a perfume. It becomes a safe luxury. It signals class without colonial mimicry. It's cosmopolitan without being rootless.

From the business angle, the logic is clear. Oud sells. Mass-market brands now have no choice but to cater to this scent profile. Even Western designers like Tom Ford and Dior have released multiple oud-based offerings. However, what's more fascinating is how smaller Middle Eastern companies are outcompeting them in key markets, such as South Asia.

They've cracked the code, made oud affordable, packaged it in ornate bottles that mimic luxury design, and let the scent do the rest.

Social media did the rest, especially YouTube reviewers and TikTok creators who turned these perfumes into cult favourites.

Perfume is no longer just a private indulgence in this country. It's becoming performative, almost theatrical. And oud fits perfectly into that script. Whether it's weddings, Jummah prayers, or even dates, people want to leave behind a scented trace.

They want to walk into a room and not be ignored. Oud answers that call in a way few other scent profiles can. Nazmul Hasan Bappy, an office worker from Karwanbazar, used to be a citrus enthusiast. "For years, I stuck to those lemony-fresh colognes," he said. "They felt clean, safe, polite. But at some point, they began to feel… bland. Like everyone smelled the same." It wasn't that he disliked citrus—it just stopped saying anything about him.

Then came oud. Rich, dark, and unapologetic. "The first time I wore an oud perfume, Private Oud by Swiss Arabian, I got stopped in the elevator," Nazmul recalled.

"Someone said, 'You smell expensive.' And that was it. I never looked back. Rather, I delve into Arabian Oud Kalemat or Tom Ford Oud Wood-like profiles. Currently, my go-to perfume is Shaghaf Oud Tonka by Swiss Arabian."

For many like him, the transition is less about abandoning freshness and more about claiming depth—about trading in temporary brightness for something that lingers, speaks louder, and feels more personal.

So, in the end, this isn't about just wanting to 'smell rich.' It's about resonance—cultural, personal, psychological.

Oud offers that rare combination of story, style, and substance. And as long as brands keep finding ways to bottle it without draining wallets, its smoke will continue to rise, curling into lives across regions, class lines, and cultural moods.

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