There’s a quiet kind of magic that stirs when you step beyond your familiar world. Not the glittering sort that announces itself with grand gestures, but something gentler, more profound. It begins the moment you truly meet people. Not in passing, not in pretence, but in shared laughter, quiet kindness, and unexpected common ground. And what you discover is deeply humbling: beneath the accents, the postcodes, the tailored coats or muddy boots, we are more alike than we ever imagined.
Through haute couture, through the countryside, through fragrance and shared stories, I’ve learned that when we dare to look beyond our own little world, we find humanity, warm, gentle and often quietly kind. And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, we fall in love, not in the romantic sense, but in a way that connects soul to soul. A human love. The kind that stays.
My journey began in the world of couture bridalwear. I was a London-based designer. I had immense pleasure designing an exquisite collection of bridal dresses for boutiques up and down the country, from the elegance of London to the serene charm of Cheshire and even the most idyllic Ireland. My pieces were stocked in some of the loveliest corners of the UK, and I was often invited to attend exclusive designer days, intimate occasions where brides would come specifically to explore my collection.
These moments were quietly profound. I would spend an hour for each bride, listen closely to her story, ask questions, and guide her toward the dress that reflected not only her silhouette but her essence. We would speak of her celebration, the venue, her vision, those beautiful glimpses into her world that inspired each creation. There was a tender intimacy in these exchanges, something I always cherished.
Every meeting with a bride felt like a whispered pause in time, a space where dreams gently unfolded. In those rooms, draped with silks and anticipation, I saw love in its most honest form. There’s something extraordinarily beautiful about sharing that moment, just before the ‘yes’ to the dress, and long before the ‘I do.’
I travelled frequently for exhibitions and bridal trade shows, and one of my earliest ventures brought me to Harrogate, a place that utterly captivated me. The warmth of its people, the lovely Yorkshire accent, and the charming bakeries (Bettys, naturally) all felt like throwing open a window to welcome the fresh, invigorating breath of the countryside.
I shall never forget one particular bride from Market Harborough. She was to marry a farmer and had chosen one of my dresses. During a quiet moment amid her fitting, she regarded me with a curious, gentle smile and observed, “You belong in the countryside, you’re not a typical Londoner.”
There was a gentle tenderness in her words. Designers are often presumed to be a certain type, cloaked in grandeur, impeccably dressed, living lives ensconced within the world of fittings and fashion capitals. Yet, through her eyes, I was something quite different. I belonged among vast skies, muddy boots, and the comforting kettle simmering on the hob.
Seizing the moment, I asked about life on the farm, the steady rhythm of the seasons, the tractors, and the early mornings. Her vivid tales grounded me, and in that quiet exchange, I uncovered a profound truth: the countryside had quietly claimed me as one of its own. Then, one day, I received a message from her: a lamb had just been born, and she had named it after me, Chandrika. “You must come and see her,” she urged. So I made my way to Leicester, and there I was, in a farm, gently chasing after this delicate newborn, hoping to capture a photograph with her. The moment felt utterly enchanting, almost otherworldly.
“She’s a special one,” the bride confided, her voice laced with pride. “A prized breed, we’ll be entering her into competitions.” I smiled, half-teasing, “You’re not planning to eat her, are you?” She laughed softly. “Not at all. She’s far too precious.” There was something deeply touching in the way she spoke of the lamb, as though it were more than a creature, more than a pet. In naming her after me, she had extended a gesture of profound affection and reverence. It felt almost sacramental. A quiet, humbling offering that I received with heartfelt gratitude.
That day, I met the mother sheep, regal and striking with her distinctive curly horns. They were breeding for continuous lineage, she explained, nurturing a heritage of strong, elegant animals. And in that moment, I glimpsed not just the beginnings of new life, but the tender ritual of continuity and care. These are the kinds of moments that stay with me, the quiet honour of being invited in.
This is what I treasure most: the relationships I’ve built with my brides. It’s never simply about a dress. They welcome me to their weddings, write to me when they welcome their first child, and somehow, over the years, we remain closely connected.
I was born and raised in London as a British Asian, and from a young age, my world was shaped by a deep passion for theatre and the arts. Despite a difficult upbringing, I was exposed to a variety of experiences that sparked in me a fierce openness and an insatiable curiosity.
As a teenager, I threw myself wholeheartedly into anything that caught my imagination or attention, cultivating a broad-mindedness that wasn’t just about the music I loved, but about a way of living, a constant desire to explore and try new things.
One of my favourite teenage haunts was Camden Market. I would spend hours wandering through the flea markets, endlessly fascinated by Victorian slips, petticoats, and pillowcases, marvelling at the delicate finishing and pleated edges. I collected these little treasures with a kind of reverence. I was equally drawn to antiques and comic books, and I loved the vibrant energy of arcades, where I would lose myself playing computer games, Salamander was a particular favourite. The record shops at Camden Lock became a sanctuary, places where I could immerse myself and buy records. My taste in music was delightfully eclectic, spanning from hip-hop beats to classical masterpieces: the soulful rhythms of R&B, the timeless compositions of Mozart, the improvisations of jazz, the ethereal sounds of Tangerine Dream, and the vibrant pulses of electronic and pop music.
Those youthful days were defined by a hunger to break free from convention, to defy conditioning, and to embrace a mindset that refused to be boxed in. Early on, I understood that people think so differently, and that there’s no need to limit oneself to a single path or genre. This openness naturally stretched beyond music to all forms of art. I find joy in everything, from modern galleries to classical exhibitions. While I have my favourites, my heart is always open to discovery and fresh perspectives.
In many ways, this diverse tapestry of interests and experiences is a direct reflection of my unique upbringing. It taught me not to fear difference or divergence but to celebrate them, to think outside the box and to cultivate a rich, multifaceted view of the world.
And this outlook extends beyond the city too. Many might imagine the countryside as little more than muddy fields, but for me, it has always been a landscape ripe for exploration and discovery. Each trip away from the city brings a surge of excitement, which I eagerly share with my friends, sometimes insistently, trying to convey the warmth of the people, the stories etched into every corner, and the deep history waiting to be uncovered. It is a continuous love affair: from Dorset’s gentle hills and coastal areas to the rugged beauty of Scotland, from the rolling landscapes of the Malvern Hills to the dramatic vistas of Wales. With heartfelt conviction, I would tell my friends, “The countryside is breathtakingly beautiful, you simply must see it for yourself. If you don’t, you’re truly missing out. The landscapes are stunning, and the people wonderfully welcoming.”
In the downturn of 2009, my husband Peter and I decided to shift our travel focus from overseas to exploring our own UK. It wasn’t just the trade shows or events that took us out anymore; it became a conscious choice to truly discover and appreciate the richness of our own country.
Wherever my travels led me, whether to vibrant cities or the smallest villages, I encountered kindness, warmth, and a slow, gentle rhythm of life closely entwined with the land. Each place carried its own distinctive scent and spirit; sometimes even the water tasted subtly different. I felt deeply honoured to witness and embrace this world of quiet richness.
When I transitioned from designing bridal dresses to creating fragrances, that sense of connection only deepened. I came to cherish events, not merely as opportunities to showcase my work, but as invitations to truly meet people. To listen. To be present. From every walk of life, with their beautiful differences, accents, stories, and dreams, they would offer a piece of themselves, and I would offer mine in return. That’s when it struck me most deeply: when we slow down enough to truly see one another, we fall in love, not romantically, but soulfully, with kindness, with understanding, and with the quiet, enduring grace of being human.
There was one particularly memorable event, not long after Brexit. The atmosphere across the country felt noticeably heavy, divisions lingered in conversations, and a quiet uncertainty hung in the air. I was en route to a countryside fair, a cattle event. Peter, my husband, couldn’t join me on that occasion, but I was genuinely looking forward to it.
Having been in business for many years, I’ve learned how profoundly the news can shape the public mood, which then affects businesses. But I’ve always had an unshakeable love for people. I never dwell too much on whether someone will warm to me; I simply carry on, and more often than not, something just clicks. There’s always a point of connection, no matter the age, background, or walk of life. It might be farming, fashion, family, or just a shared laugh over the unpredictable British weather.
And so, with an open heart and wellies at the ready, off I went, eager for yet another countryside adventure.
My little marquee was set up next to a gentleman who was selling beautiful, countryside-inspired jewellery for his wife. He had a quiet presence, a man of few words, and when I introduced myself, “Hi, I’m Chandrika,” and offered my hand, he responded with a somewhat lukewarm handshake and a reserved look, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of my excitement.
A few stands away was a friendly man who introduced himself as Persian. He said he was known as the Persian Carpet Man, having done it for decades, travelling up and down the country selling his beautiful Persian rugs. He was very chatty, as was I, so we kept checking in with each other throughout the day: Where are the ladies(loo)? What’s the food like? What time do we close? He would always come bearing lots of information. He was clearly more experienced than I was.
The first time I arrived, my quiet neighbour watched as I pulled up in my little car and began unpacking what must have seemed an impossible amount of things, large items like three solid fragrance bars, an Aladdin’s cave spilling from such a tiny vehicle. From the look on his face, he seemed quite surprised at how I planned to manage unpacking it all on my own. He said little at the time and quietly helped me.
Each morning, I’d struggle with the marquee sheets. The wind was relentless, and pieces of furniture would roll or fly off. He’d quietly come over and sort it out for me, never saying much, just doing. I’d be flustered, flapping about in my raincoat and wellies, and there he was: calm, helpful, no fuss.
He remained… well, quiet. I could hear him talking to other people, but with me, he was always reserved and silent. Still, I couldn’t help myself; I’d chat away to him regardless. I’d often find myself offering him little comforts, trying to coax him into conversation. “Would you like a sandwich?” “Would you like a biscuit?” I’d ask. “Perhaps a cookie? Shall I fetch you a coffee, or some water?” We were always gently encouraging him to chat, hoping to bridge the quiet gap with kindness and hospitality. Whenever he needed to nip to the boys room, I’d assure him, “Don’t worry, I’ll watch your stand.” And I meant it. I told him I wouldn’t let anyone take anything, and if someone showed interest, I’d gladly help; I had it all covered.
After a couple of days, he began to ask me questions, where I was from, for example, and responded more warmly to my offers. If you know me, you’ll know I can’t help but throw in the odd little joke here and there, and I caught him quietly laughing at quite a few of them. Our conversations unfolded naturally, easily, and without effort. Brexit never came up between us, though I had heard him speak passionately about it with his friends, touching on high-level matters I’d rather not delve into here. There was clearly a difference in opinion, but I understood where he was coming from, and I respected it. Because it made no difference to me, we were there as humans, and we’re allowed to have different opinions and ideas. We respected the differences between us, and in that quiet space, a gentle understanding began to grow.
Then, he offered me a helpful tip: to park my car behind the marquee so I could pack up and leave more quickly at the end of the day.
On the final day, just before closing, the Persian gentleman and I were chatting once more, while our quiet friend next door had already closed up his tent. I asked, “Do you think he’ll say goodbye?” He replied, “I’m not sure.” I said, “Oh, I’d be really upset if he didn’t.” I felt genuinely a little sad at the thought that he might slip away without a word, especially after all the small, shared moments over the days. Thanks to the tip he’d once given me, to park my car behind the tent for a quicker getaway, I knew his vehicle was already packed and ready to go.
Then, quite suddenly, I heard the rustle of his tent being unzipped. I looked over and saw him opening my tent, and then, there he was, stepping in and wrapping me in the biggest, warmest hug.
He said, “I’ve had the most wonderful time watching you struggling to open and close your tent in the wind with your pink wellies, and continuously offering me food and drink, keeping me fed and watered.” I laughed but felt a little shy too. I thought perhaps I was a bit too pink, a bit too feminine. Then he added with a smile, “I’ve learnt a lot from you, you’ve told me about your background, your business, your world, and it turns out we have more in common than I thought we did.”
He wished me luck, and I wished him well in return.
It meant everything to me. This is what truly matters: meeting others as individuals, beyond assumptions and stereotypes. I may never know what he thought when he first saw me: a woman of colour from London, a world so different from his own. Yet, through those quiet moments, something shifted. The barriers between us slowly dissolved.
That is the true magic of connection. When we meet each other simply as human beings, not as headlines, not as statistics, walls soften, understanding grows, and real bonds are forged.
Even in our family travels, I’ve witnessed this truth. My husband Peter grew up camping, not the polished, posh kind, but the good old-fashioned sort you’d find at Butlins, with canvas tents, unpredictable weather, and all the charming chaos that comes with it. Before we got married, he took me to Butlins as a pre-celebration, the very place where he spent childhood holidays. Then, soon after our wedding, he whisked me away on the luxurious Orient Express to Venice for our honeymoon. That’s just who he is: embracing life’s full spectrum with openness and ease. I hold both experiences close to my heart, cherishing the lessons each one has brought.
When we returned to one of his childhood spots, I asked, “Why do we keep coming back here?” He replied with a simple, profound truth: “Because we shouldn’t forget where we came from.” Those words have stayed with me. I truly admire how Peter has been teaching me throughout our journey together. Though we come from very different backgrounds and distinct experiences, we have grown to understand and accept each other deeply.
Now, our life is a blend of contrasts, from simple London canal walks and local forests to theatres, museums, churches, and concerts, from Sadler’s Wells to the Glyndebourne Opera Festival. Life is meant to be lived fully, embracing all its richness and variety.
These moments, from brides and newborn lambs to damp tents and endless museum exhibitions to grand opera halls, have shaped me, and in turn, shaped my brand. Had I not ventured beyond London, had I not met these remarkable souls, my fragrance house would be very different. It’s steeped in stories. Genuine stories. You cannot bottle that kind of connection unless you’ve truly lived it.
So, if you’re reading this and haven’t yet stepped beyond your familiar world, I urge you: go. Explore the countryside. Talk to strangers. Visit a farm, wander through a village fete, share a drink in a village pub, or dance at a festival on a windswept hill. Ask questions. Listen with your whole heart. Because when you do, you’ll see what I see: people are kind. People are funny. People are deeply lovable.
And when we learn to truly see one another, something extraordinary happens: we fall in love.
