The Quest for Iththar

Shehnaz had always harbored a deep fondness for iththar — that precious Arabian perfume oil, ancient in its craft, intimate in its nature. Her children shared this love, particularly her older one, who used it extensively and wore it with pride, as though the scent were a second skin. No trip to the Middle East or India was complete without Shehnaz returning home with small, carefully chosen bottles of the oil for her family.

There was something about iththar that no commercial perfume could replicate — a warmth that bloomed slowly on the skin, a depth that lingered without announcing itself. It was not merely fragrance. It was memory, identity, a thread woven through generations.

This time was different, though. She was on Umrah. And after completing her spiritual journey, she found herself still searching — not for answers, but for that perfect scent.

Shehnaz had been searching through the bustling markets of both Mecca and Madinah. She had assigned her friends to keep their eyes open — Nazia, Soni, and Saji scanning shop after shop on her behalf, hoping to find that perfect scent. Yet everything she encountered disappointed her. The bottles contained the same commercial perfumes she could easily purchase back home. Nothing special. Nothing authentic.

She also encountered a new type of perfume that she disliked right away. These felt thick as wax, spreading like heavy cream and clinging stubbornly to the skin. The texture was all wrong. She hated them.

Day after day, the search yielded nothing. The holy cities, so generous with their blessings, seemed to withhold this one small thing. Shehnaz was on the verge of abandoning her quest entirely.

Their final day in Madinah arrived. The group went shopping, but Shehnaz wasn't hunting for iththar anymore. She had nearly given up — had quietly folded the wish away, to be carried home unfulfilled.

Nazia needed to purchase an additional bag. The group made their way to a nearby shopping center — just one more stop before heading back to pack for their flight home. Nazia quickly found the bag she wanted. And there, right next to the handbag section, almost by accident, almost as though it had been waiting — there was a counter displaying bottles of iththar.

Two men stood behind it: a large, imposing man with a full beard, and beside him a strikingly handsome young man. As Shehnaz approached, both men greeted her warmly. The older one spoke first, his voice unhurried and kind.

Shehnaz explained: she wanted something for men, with a powerful, lasting aroma. Something authentic. Something real.

The bearded man began presenting bottles, one after another. He would uncap each one, wave it gently, and offer it for Shehnaz to smell. She responded honestly to each scent, her voice measured and direct.

"Not strong enough."
"That has an unpleasant odour."
"Too floral — this is more feminine."
"Yes. This one is pleasant."

After several perfumes, the man reached beneath the counter and handed Shehnaz something unexpected: a container of Nescafé coffee powder. She looked at him quizzically.

Shehnaz inhaled the coffee grounds, and her sense of smell sharpened once more. The testing continued — she kept smelling, acknowledging some with nods of approval, rejecting others with a polite shake of her head. Finally, she had selected four different perfumes. Four scents that spoke to her.

Now came the moment she both anticipated and dreaded: the price. Shehnaz asked directly, not wanting to waste time. The shopkeeper didn't hesitate.

"Eight hundred riyals."

Roughly two hundred and fifteen dollars. Her eyes widened. Far more than she had expected. She excused herself and walked over to her friends, who were browsing nearby. They huddled together as she explained.

"That's fifty dollars per bottle," Nazia observed. "For four bottles, that's two hundred." Soni and Saji both agreed — expensive, but not unreasonable for quality iththar. But Shehnaz knew the truth: regardless of whether it was fair, she simply couldn't afford it. Her budget was tight. Two hundred dollars was too much.

She walked back to the counter, her decision made. "I'm sorry, it's too expensive. I can't afford it." She turned to leave.

"Wait," the large man called after her. "You are my last customer of the day. I'll give them to you for one hundred eighty dollars."

Shehnaz kept walking. "No, I'm sorry."

Her friends urged her to try once more. "Go back and offer four hundred riyals. See what he says." She sighed, turned around, and this time all four of them approached the counter together.

"Four hundred riyals," she stated firmly. "That's my offer."

The bearded man exchanged a glance with the younger one — his brother, Shehnaz now realised — a silent conversation passing between them.

"You are my last customer," he said, his tone almost pleading now. "The maximum I can do is five hundred riyals. And I will throw in a fifth bottle for free. Five bottles for five hundred."

Before Shehnaz could respond, Nazia interjected quietly. "We can buy better quality in India for less than this." Shehnaz nodded. She understood the logic. And still, five hundred was beyond reach. They began to walk away again.

Shehnaz stopped in her tracks. She turned slowly. Four hundred riyals — just over a hundred dollars — for five bottles of authentic Arabian iththar. She looked at him for a moment.

"Okay. Then let's pack it."

While the younger man carefully wrapped each bottle, he looked up at Shehnaz with a mischievous smile. "Next time you come... don't bring your friends," he said, then quickly added, "I'm joking, I'm joking."

Shehnaz laughed. But her attention had already shifted to something else: the ring on his finger. It was distinctive — a silver band with a round, black stone set in the front. The design was identical to a ring her father had once bought for her years ago. She felt the recognition land somewhere quiet in her chest.

"Where did you get that ring?" she asked.

Shehnaz smiled back. The bottles were packed carefully and placed in a bag. She pulled out her credit card to pay — and the brothers exchanged another look.

"I'm sorry," the older one said apologetically. "Our card reader is broken right now. We only have cash."

Shehnaz reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill — one of the last she had. "This is all I have," she explained. "I'm flying back to the States tonight. I don't have any other cash on me."

The older brother looked at the bill, then at his younger brother, then back at Shehnaz. He nodded slowly. "It's okay. I'm done for the day anyway."

During their conversation, the brothers had mentioned they were originally from Afghanistan. They spoke Hindi fluently because so many of their customers came from India and Pakistan — Hindi was the language of business here, they explained with a quiet pride.

In the midst of all this negotiating and purchasing, Shehnaz had also managed to buy a prayer mat for Munnu's friend at the same store. She had paid for it separately and now held both packages — the prayer mat and the precious iththar.

She stood near the entrance of the shopping center, waiting for Nazia, Soni, and Saji to finish their own purchases so they could all walk back to the hotel together.

She had gotten what she wanted. The authentic iththar, at last.

But something else lingered in her mind: that silver ring with the black stone, the one that reminded her so much of her father's gift. She had seen another one like it the night before, in a different shop.

It was on her wishlist now. And somehow, before this journey was over, Nazia would be the reason she could make it hers.