Oman & Kannauj: Two lands, one rose

Up in the desert mountains of Oman’s Hajar range, the harsh, vertiginously terraced slopes radiate pink.

One moment you’re in the capital city of Muscat, surrounded by palaces and sprawling forts; the next, you’re flying down broad highways toward the Hajar Mountains that loom behind the city’s low-slung silhouette. But nothing quite prepared me for the mountain town of Jabal Akhdar, blooming in surreal stripes of pink.

Between April and June, the rugged Hajar Mountains are full of Rosa damascena, commonly known as the damask rose. Revered by poets and perfumers alike, it’s one of Oman’s most treasured gifts.

They bloom only once a year, and only for a few fleeting weeks — so the harvesting begins early, often before dawn. There’s a reason for the rush: the essential oils that give damask roses their prized fragrance are at their most potent just before sunrise. As the day goes on, their aroma slowly begins to fade.

At 5 am, Jabal Akhdar feels different — quieter, more pristine. The temperature dips lower, the moon hangs heavy behind the cliffs, and the only light comes from a faint glow rising behind the mountains. At one of the farms, I’m with a group of harvesters, gathering damask roses — pinch, twist, drop — into their wide baskets. The blooms are tightly curled, in delicate shades of pink. But their scent? Anything but modest. Even in the cold air, it drifts — soft, heady, with a hint of peppery sweetness. By 6 am, the sky begins to shift. The baskets are nearly full, and some spill into large sacks.

Later, the roses are taken down the slopes to be distilled into rosewater in copper pots. Carefully filtered, they are then poured into clay vessels that eventually help the scent to deepen before bottling. It’s incredible to know how far these floral offerings will travel: to homes across Arabia, misted over guests’ hands, stirred into halwa, brewed with coffee, or baked into pastries; and for skincare and spiritual needs. These very blooms also find their way to one of the world’s most luxurious perfume houses, Amouage, in Muscat, where they are transformed into bottled fragrances and sent to the farthest corners of the world.

Today, some 300–500 small-scale Omani farmers grow these blooms along the slopes, which have also become a bit of a tourist magnet. You can try your hand at rose-picking, snap some photos, and browse little stores selling everything from rose oils to local attars. The villagers continue to nurture these flowers in the traditional Omani way. 

History has it that the damask rose is named after the Syrian city of Damascus, believed to be the oldest continuously inhabited capital in the world. Oman’s damask rose, now flourishing in its mountain ranges, likely arrived in the 16th century and was introduced by the Ottoman Empire. Back then, it ruled regions west of Oman and championed the art of rose cultivation.

The scent, the blooms, and the age-old farming techniques reminded me how this very flower has found its way to India, shaping the country’s perfume capital, Kannauj.

But India’s damask rose, found in the fertile alluvial soils of the Ganga basin, is said to have been brought from Persia by the first Mughal emperor, Babur. With the Mughals came an extravagant use of scent and with it, the rise of Kannauj’s centuries-old perfumery tradition. The region’s fertile soil and climate give the rose its distinct profile.

But Kannauj and Oman aren’t so different. Visiting both, the sight of those delicate pink blooms transported me back and forth between the two. Their traditions of rose cultivation and distillation share great similarities — everything is done by hand, with artisans having honed their craft over decades. Even when it comes to global perfumery, Oman and Kannauj had already mastered the art of rose cultivation and distillation long before France’s Grasse became synonymous with luxury fragrance.

Pranav Kapoor, an eighth-generation perfumer from Kannauj who also runs a perfume tourism initiative, shares how he’s had perfumers from global fragrance houses walk into his distillery in Kannauj and say it felt like what Grasse must have been a hundred years ago. “My family firm first reached out to Amouage back in 1986. We’ve had a cross-border exchange for decades. Recently, we even hosted Cecile Zarokian — who’s created fragrances for Amouage and other luxury houses — in Kannauj,” he adds, explaining the striking parallels between Kannauj and Oman’s perfumery traditions.

Yet, while both regions celebrate the damask rose, their characteristics differ. “Oman’s rose extracts tend to be slightly deeper, almost duskier in tone. While the Kannauj rose is delicate, soft with a green-sharp edge, when it follows the traditional deg-bhapka method. Both roses have distinct personalities, shaped by their soils,” explains Kapoor. Similarly, their final products have taken different paths. Oman’s variety, valued for its sweet scent, focuses more on rosewater extraction. Kannauj remains a stronghold in the creation of rose attar using time-tested distillation methods.

What’s moving is how something as small and fragile as a flower can carry so much weight. The damask rose comes with a lot of power; emotionally, spiritually, and sensorially. It connects these two beautiful places in ways deeper than trade or tradition. It’s strange how something as simple as scent can do what language often cannot. “And let’s be honest — when something smells this good, borders don’t matter,” Kapoor rightly says.