Its 1864. Colonel Lyle Oldershaw-Plaskitt is sitting in his dimly lighted small office, in his colonnial mansion, in the outskirts of Bangalore. He's about to start writing a letter, to inform the newly appointed Viceroy of India, Sir John Lawrence, Bt, that Bangalore's rail connection to Madras is finally completed and ready to operate. He realises, with a slight annoyance, that what is left in his inkwell is not going to suffice for more than a few words, and he silently curses himself for having failed to notice that his ink supply was that low. Unwilling to wait till morning, he decides to mix what ink is left with a dram of the strong tea he's drinking, hoping that the Viceroy will excuse this slight inappropriateness. Before being able to write down even a single word, he's utterly surprised (an extremely rare situation for a stiff upper lip British senior officer) by a heavenly smell that seems to arise from his inkwell. As close to mesmerised as a soldier of his stature could be, he slowly puts his Gillott's nib down, and reaches for the inkwell.
Next afternoon, with his skin a little darker than usual, he enters the country club, to be greeted by Brigadier Eugene Boulstridge-Smythe, who turns from glad to amazed within five seconds of standing next to him.
"Goodness gracious me Lyle, you smell divine! Any good old Atkinsons new stuff? And how on earth did you get a tan since yesterday?"
Colonel Lyle Oldershaw-Plaskitt smiles complacently and drinks a sip of his whisky.
"You shall see old friend, you shall see..."
Colonel Lyle Oldershaw-Plaskitt perished during a storm four days later en route to Ceylon, where he was heading for purchasing an unusual for an individual quantity of tea. His order of three firkins of Indian ink was already on its way, but he failed to receive them due to his untimely demise. His comrades mourned and honoured their distinguished fellow countryman with all respect, and in his memoirs, then General Eugene Boulstridge-Smythe didn't forget to mention, besides all other attributes, that Colonel Lyle Oldershaw-Plaskitt was the best-smelling man he had ever met, and what a pity it was that this magnificent and absolutely unique scent of his was sadly lost for ever under the waves surrounding Adam's Bridge.
Until one year before the new millennium, when a France-based Japanese lady, obviously not giving a damn about what people would think of such a concoction, reinvented it...
P.S.: Call me a madman if you please, but to my nose (which I'm the first to admit that it's not to be taken very seriously), and despite the fact that they barely share a couple of notes, this has a very strong resemblance to Azzaro's Acteur...