Fragrance as Emotional Infrastructure: Memory, Held in the Air

I read an article recently about how Gen Z is turning fragrance into a personal time capsule—and it stayed with me far longer than I expected. Because while the language was new, the feeling wasn’t.

Every single evening, without fail, I light incense at home. Most days it’s mogra (jasmine) or chandan (sandalwood)..And instantly, I’m transported. Not to a place I’ve visited - but to a place I belong to. It reminds me of my childhood home. Of waking up to the fragrance of my parents’ pooja - not stopping the morning, but softening it.

The house still holding the scent of incense, flowers, and prayer. That soft, invisible warmth that told you: you’re safe, you’re held, your people are around.
Even today, that fragrance gives me comfort in a way no object ever could. It regulates me. Grounds me. Softens the edges of the day.

What Gen Z is articulating now—this idea that scent is memory, emotion, identity—is something many of us have been living quietly for decades.
We just didn’t have the language for it. Fragrance isn’t decoration. It’s emotional infrastructure.

As a designer, this makes me think deeply about hospitality.
We design hotels obsessively through what guests see - materials, lighting, palettes, silhouettes. But what if we designed through what they feel first?

What if, while booking a hotel, you could choose a scent the way you choose a pillow? And some hotels have started that, in fact—especially for longer stays, where comfort becomes continuity rather than novelty.

A small vial or tube waiting in your room. Mogra. Chandan. Bergamot. Cedar. Linen. Smoke. A scent that reminds you of home. Or of confidence. Or of calm. Or of a version of yourself you’re trying to return to. Not a branded “hotel scent” forced into every corridor - but a personal, optional ritual. One that says: We see you as a human, not just a guest.

Luxury today isn’t about impressing the senses. It’s about regulating the nervous system. About familiarity, choice, emotional safety.

Incense, for me, is not nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. It’s continuity. It’s memory as comfort. It’s identity that doesn’t need to perform. And perhaps that’s the quiet shift happening right now - from scent as status to scent as sentiment.

I’d love to see hospitality embrace that. Not louder. Just deeper.