by Leanne Ogasawara

The ancients told us that it was the heart that mattered. Thinking too much, they warned, will only give you a headache. And this fact was backed up by the finest research of Medieval physicians and theologians. Aristotelian philosophy had imparted to the Medievals that the heart was hot and dry– often times burning hot; and that intelligence, emotion, and passion all originated there, in that heat. Ibn Arabi further refined this by adding that, if the mind thinks (考), then heart imagines （思・想).

We find ourselves back in a time when heart and imagination took center stage–and love was thought to move the stars and the heavens above.

Not surprisingly, it was a time when lovesickness was the most common form of heart disease. A veiled glimpse ignites a fire causing two people to circle each other as Lover desires Beloved; each seeking to know the Other. This all being something which took place within the topography of the heart itself. It was something imagined– over weeks upon weeks; months upon months. Imagined as “'spirits take bodies and bodies become spirits' something so powerful that European physicians of the Middle Ages declared that, if one wasn’t careful, lovesickness could lead a person into madness (see Averroes' study of love as affliction, for example).

13th and 14th century scholars talked about something known to them as visual species. These were defined as “objects” (propogated through the air) that mediated between the physical and imaginal world by imprinting themselves on a person's imaginaton from a distance. It was the image as held in the body that caused the troublesome– and sometimes dangerous– overheating of the bood around the heart.

To pursue the logic of all this, because the “visual species” that caused desire and lovesickness were things originating outside the person, it followed that magic could also generate new species. And this is why love charms, amulets and the use of magical incantations in maters of love became fairly common. For romantic success, men were encouraged to write “pax + pix + abyra + syth + samasic” on a hazel stick and hit a woman with it three times on the head, then quicky kiss her; while Tristan and Iseult were undone by a love potion which they accidentally drank. People reported that like the other magical incantation– abbracadbra— that just whispering the words out loud “I-love-you” had the power to move mountains. It even had the power to cure gout–or maybe that was abbracadabra?

I told him that I wanted to employ a famous Medieval love charm at our wedding. Not surprising, the Eucharistic host played many different roles in various Medieval love potions. But my favorite was perhaps the simplest– a lady would slip the host under her tongue. Then, kissing her beloved with the host still in her mouth, she would ensure that he would love her forever.

He dismissed my plans, saying, he already knew he would love me forever so I didn't need to go through so much trouble.

I wonder, though, is the heart that knowable?

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by Mathangi Krishnamurthy

Let's make one thing very clear. We do not do Valentine's. That would be horribly uncool. But we are not entirely cynical either. So in the interest of a critical, yet marginally hopeful view that can go beyond the intensely heteronormative annoyance of Hallmark madness, here is a post-Valentine post on the nature of the only grand narrative we have left in the world. Love.

And this is the one time of the year when I feel like rejecting it in its every form. Just because the stores, the streets, the movies, and the chocolates all plot in unison to cajole me otherwise. (Yes, the plot is neoliberal capitalism. Yes I know). Also, scratch the last part. I like chocolate.

But if I end up calling this grand narrative corrupt, and false, and superficial, and all those other bad words, then surely I must know what the real deal is? And this is the problem. I really don't. So when I claim that some forms of blatantly marketed coercive love make no sense, what I am really saying is that I prefer some forms of love-marketing over others.

So before you lose all patience, all I'm saying is this: Love is mediated.

Image © Paul James Gomes

(The above is an excerpt from Paul's fascinating work on the contemporary Bangladeshi film industry)

And yes, perhaps there are forms of love in the world that are less mediated than others. Babies and puppies. But I do not have the capacity or the patience to go biological right now. So bear with me. Love is mediated. And no, this is not a bad thing. Humans are mediated beings. We learn how to eat, sit, talk, listen, fear, shout, lean, lose, attach, let go, and hang on. We would be nothing without mediation. We adhere to form. In the loosest sense of the word, even as we produce form. And this gives us the capacity to a narrative, and a stance, and a sense of being in the world. We are the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves (Apologies to Geertz, but well, this could be the new definition for native ethnography). And stories need plots. And we cannot lose the plot.

So in random order, here are three important bits of mediation that structure my narrative. Things, and songs, and movies, and books that I am attached to because they tried telling me how and what to love. Some of these I have thankfully escaped, others lurk in the background.

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by Matt McKenna

If Tim Story's Ride Along was merely intended to be viewed as a film about a plucky security guard attempting to win the favor of his girlfriend's brother by becoming a full-fledged police officer, it would have been christened with any number of pun-laden titles to better suggest its goofiness and simplicity. For example, it might have been called Cop-in-Law or To Serve and Reject or maybe even Hey, Is It All Right If I Become a Cop and Marry Your Sister? But the movie is called Ride Along, and that is our first clue that the picture is more than just a sigh-inducing attempt to squeeze every last silly dollar out of actor Kevin Hart's burgeoning stardom. Hidden underneath the veneer of this two-chuckle-max comedy is an essay picking apart America's long-standing issue of class immobility, a topic whose popularity has reemerged during the preamble to the run-up to the early-stages to the beginning of the 2016 Presidential election.

Long gone are the days when Ice Cube would swarm on any gentleman in a blue uniform. In Ride Along, Cube plays the role of Officer James Payton, a brash, rule-breaking cop on the hunt for a mysterious bad guy who has hatched an insidious plot to traffic weapons or something. Kevin Hart plays Ben Barber, a flip security guard with a heart of gold and a penchant for getting in over his head. These two diametrically opposed characters clash when Barber asks to marry Payton's sister, Angela. Payton, wearing the most twisted smile since the Grinch stole Christmas, tells Barber he can marry Angela only if he first completes a “ride-along” and demonstrates the requisite courage along the way.

And so we have arrived at the surface reason for calling the film Ride Along–indeed, Barber is riding along with Payton as he performs his duties as an officer of the Atlanta police department. But there is another, more consequential reason for the film's title. Barber is also riding along with Payton as he enjoys the privileges afforded to members of the film's upper class. While cops in the real world certainly don't have the advantages of Wall Street bankers and Fortune 500 CEOs, in the world of Ride Along, they are, in fact, the 1%. Cops drive nice cars. Cops commit crimes with impunity. Cops are the guys every other guy–Barber included–wants to be.

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by Fausto Ribeiro

The year that marked the tenth anniversary of Sergio Vieira de Mello's death in Baghdad was also the one in which his biographer, Pulitzer Prize-winning activist Samantha Power, was nominated as the American Ambassador to the United Nations. Now, 2013 is over and the Nobel Peace Prize has been awarded to the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, whose efforts have been essential in the struggle against the Assad regime's chemical warfare. In light of this, one must surely wonder whether a turning point in international relations is taking place, after years in which irrational power-politics seemed to be the only available form of conflict resolution. As part of the effort to reflect upon that question, a reappraisal of Vieira de Mello's life's work may prove invaluable.

Sergio Vieira de Mello, the UN diplomat whose peculiar background included a Sorbonne degree in philosophy and a stint as a quintessentially soixante-huitard Paris rebel, never ceased to look for a theoretical foundation upon which to base his notoriously active and adventurous career. In a 2000 lecture, for instance, the Brazilian diplomat claimed to experience a “tranquilizing fascination” with the Hegelian idea that the march of history is perfectible through the power of reason – an idea which dismisses the recurrence of human tragedies as nothing but superficial upheavals that do not prevent progress towards an idealized future. However, Vieira de Mello would also declare himself suspicious about that notion, “because the real of my experience has invariably inspired in me a great skepticism towards totalizing theories, given the multiple manifestations of the irrational that always contradict them”. Hegel's World's Spirit (Weltgeist) would be, in the diplomat's perception, akin to “a religious interpretation of the course of history, in the sense that conviction derives from faith, from purely abstract reason, and not from concrete facts, from the real”. To consider the World's Spirit an irrefutable theory would only be possible for des yeux des convertis – the eyes of the proselytes.

In numerous aspects, Vieira de Mello considered that the UN, with the creative duality and mutual support existent between its Security Council and its Secretariat, “had begun to prove that it may – and, therefore, must – exert the role not of the Spirit, but of the World's Conscience”. A conscience would differ from a spirit in that it is “anti-dogmatic, receptive, and tolerant, because it is enriched and formed by the discovery and recognition of its characteristics, by its particular values, and, above all, by its capacity to extract the principles and common interests from the brute mass of events and of our history”.

Before presenting this alternative theory of history, however, Vieira de Mello asked a question whose deep significance would only become fully clear one year later, on September, 11th, 2001: aside from nihilism, what is there left? The matter-of-fact manner in which nihilism was dismissed in the question clearly indicates that Vieira de Mello found this alternative to be so abhorrent that it did not even merit further consideration. It is therefore a grim irony that precisely such nihilism was at the core of the mindset that would lead not only to the destruction of the Twin Towers, but also to the 2003 attack that put an end to Vieira de Mello's life itself.

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by Eric Byrd

…families like mine which owe everything to the Declaration of the Rights of Man.

—Rimbaud, “Bad Blood”

Above my cradle loomed the bookcase where
Latin ashes and the dust of Greece
Mingled with novels, history, and verse
In one dark Babel. I was folio-high
When I first heard the voices.

—Baudelaire, “The Voice”

“The Voice” always reminds me that Baudelaire's father, a former priest, was the Directorate's Assistant Commissioner “for the selection of books from the libraries of convents, émigrés or condemned persons” – he dissolved, commingled and dispersed private libraries. Osip Mandelstam grew up outside the Pale of Settlement, in Imperial Petersburg, a middle-class Jew enrolled in the “military, privileged, almost aristocratic” Tenishev School. In The Noise of Time Mandelstam wrote that in the jumble of his parents' bookcase he could discern the strata of their different “spiritual efforts.” His father, a leather merchant born in a shtetl, owned Schiller, Goethe, and the Tieck Shakespeare — “all this was my father fighting his way as an autodidact into the German world out of the Talmudic wilds.” Mandelstam's mother was “the first in her family to achieve the pure and clear Russian sounds”; the household's Pushkin set was the prize-book of a proud schoolgirl.

Among my father's books there were no classics but Bunyan and the Bible – The Pilgrim's Progress in imitation leather, and a strange paperback printing of the New Testament called Soul Food, whose cover showed black teenagers gathered around a picnic table, grinning broadly under their afros. My father's library was a collection of atlases, encyclopedias, heavily illustrated histories, and glossy museum catalogues. A library of vicarious travel, of famed vistas. All that the photography of the time could capture and relay. The library of a rural youth, one of the last products of segregated Southern schooling; dyslexic, mocked, called retarded, ever-remedial, a Bible college scholarship athlete, a basketball recruit tutored by white girlfriends who upon graduation headed to Los Angeles, there to be startled by California's commingling of peoples, by revisions of textbook history heard on left-wing radio, by a trip across Europe – Paris to Croatian ports – and ever after given to lament all that he'd not been “exposed to” as a boy. He didn't hear about the Holocaust until he visited Poland. Whether he acquired his books as souvenirs of his exposure, or guarantees of mine, I could never tell. The gatherer of this expansive knowledge, this explorer's library, has been for decades remote, or when present, rancorous. He has ranted, and taunted, but he has rarely spoken.

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by Josh Yarden

There is nothing new under the sun
an age passes an age arrives
the earth forever endures

Nothing is ever quite as it was
adaptation the only constant
sustained in a dynamic universe

The eastern sun aspires
toward the western sky
the place where it will rise again

What does a person gain
endeavoring under the sun:
time for everything under the skies

So goes the wisdom of a Kohelet
recollecting evanescent moments
before memories scatter to the breeze

Vapor of vapors, all is vapor
according to the convener in Jerusalem
assembler of knowledge, gatherer of insight

The very essence of evanescence:
all human endeavor is fleeting
as a wisp of misty breath

All streams lead to the sea, yet the sea does not fill up
vapor rises, clouds condense, the rains come down
streams lead to their origins to well up again, and again

Rivers teem with life
and whatever else we pour in
not grasping what we wash away

Generation and re-generation
evolution offers opportunity
to rework and reshape

Wealth and power will eventually vanish
but a deed done, as an uttered word
cannot be withdrawn

Crooked cannot be justified
that which is missing cannot be taken into account
with knowledge comes pain that pleasure can assuage but not erase

Streams swirl with our every act
our deeds whirl in the winds
passing and arriving again and again

Toward the south then shifting north
blows the winding wind
catch a gust and travel against the stream

Explore—encounter—discover
the eye is never satisfied
the ear is never full

Experiment—create—examine
change is the way of time
nothing new under the sun

Tread lightly in the world
listen closely, instead of offering fools' prayers
… speaking as if they know no evil

* The Prophet (1974) Scultpted by Jacob Lipkin. On the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, Philadelphia.

Photo credit: Barbara (Petrick) Johnson

by Sarah Firisen

Odds are you’re on Facebook. After all, 1 in 6 people on the planet are on it, why should you be the exception? I think in my immediate circle of friends and family I know one person who isn’t on it at all. I know, I know, we overshare these days; we have no privacy; we allow ourselves to be marketing pawns for Facebook and their minions; we’ve welcomed Big Brother into our lives with open arms. But nevertheless, for most of us, it seems to be the case that if a fabulous meal is eaten and no photos of it are posted on Facebook for our friends and family to salivate over, then the meal never really happened.

So I’m going to go ahead with the assumption that almost everyone reading this, except my one friend, has been exposed to a huge number of their Facebook “friends” posting “Here’s my Facebook movie. Find yours at…” I have to admit that when I first started seeing these pop up in my newsfeed I was skeptical and resisted for a day or so. Then I watched a couple and they were cute and short. Even some of my more intellectually serious friends, including a certain 3QD editor, couldn’t resist. Finally I gave into temptation and had Facebook create mine. I was pleasantly surprised; it did a good job of choosing the highlights that I might have selected. There were a lot of photos of my kids, a few of the dog and one of me showing off a new haircut. And it ended with my New Year’s greeting to friends and family making a vague reference to the hard year I’d had because of my divorce and thanking people for their support. Seemed like a fitting end point.

For hundreds of years people kept diaries and they wrote letters. In these ways, they narrated their own lives and allowed others to follow them, in the case of letters, as their correspondents and in both cases as a record of the stories of their lives for future generations. Most of us don’t write diaries, if anything we write blogs and certainly, if the slow death of the US Postal Service is anything to go by, we don’t write letters. Increasingly, we don’t even send personal emails. These days, I don’t even keep in regular contact with many people via non Facebook email. Some people I text with. A few I used BBM or Whatsapp. Instead, the story of my life is documented on Facebook and for other people on Twitter, Instagram et al.

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by Grace Boey

Last year, I decided to stop eating animal products and meat, apart from some seafood. I’d felt uncomfortable about the facts of factory farming for quite some time, and finally resolved to take the plunge. Having enjoyed meat, eggs and dairy for all my life, it was initially a challenge adjusting to my new diet – while cutting meat was surprisingly easy, I mourned the loss of scrambled eggs for breakfast for at least a month. I still sometimes find it hard to resist certain desserts made with made with eggs, butter and milk. It helps, though, that I carry pictures like these around with me on my phone. The bright yellow hue of a lemon tart that comes from egg yolks doesn’t seem so appealing anymore after I call up pictures of filthy hens squished together in cages. I slip up sometimes, but on the whole, I’ve been pretty good about sticking to my diet.

The tougher challenge for me was, and still is, talking to others about my abstention. Ideally, I’d proudly announce my decision, and freely share my reasons for making it. But in reality, I avoid talking about it as much as possible. I almost never proactively tell anyone about my diet, and I don’t mention it unless circumstances make it necessary. There are few things that make me more physically uncomfortable than having my personal business suddenly put on the spot. I’m also hopeless at expressing myself verbally. And bringing up animal abstention tends to open up a conversational can of worms of the most squirmish kind. Okay, so I’m making my abstention public here – but it’s not too often I get to kick off a conversation by explaining myself in a couple thousand words, in my medium of choice, before the other party gets to respond.

Before I began abstaining from animals, I’d heard about the legendary amount of snark and hostility experienced by others who did. I’ve since gotten my fair share of this ugliness, which usually goes like this: someone will wrangle information about my diet out of me, and then proceed, entirely unsolicited, to say something f!#@ing rude about it. I’ve gradually learned to let idiotic comments like – for every steak you don’t eat, I’m going to eat three – slide. I’m still wondering how to respond to those who make a show of delightedly biting into chicken wings, right after I sincerely express my sadness over animals being tortured in factory farms.

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by Bill Benzon

Tiger Woods is only the most recent in a long line of fine black golfers. In saying that I refer to players other than the moderns such as Charles Sifford, Jim Thorpe, Jim Dent, Lee Elder, Calvin Peete, and Renee Powell. Truth be told, the tradition of sepia swing masters started in ancient Nubia, where the game was invented. In that company Woods would be no more than a middling player.

By today's standards Tiger is ferociously talented, though his game has lost a bit of its luster of late. But those Kushite drivers of ancient Nubia were giants the like of which haven't been seen in thousands of years.

Their stories, like so many stories, have been suppressed by the Europeans. Fortunately many of those stories have been collected by The Order of Mystic Jewels for the Propagation of Grace, Right Living, and Saturday Night through Historic Intervention by Any Means Necessary. The Jewels are dedicated to preserving the ancient stories and to intervening in history in ways variously clever and indirect. They are the chief source of that version of Afrocentric thinking known as Jivometric Drummology:

Jivometric Drummology: A philosophical system grounded in African and African-American musical practice. “Drummology” indicates that the governing logos is that of the drum, of rhythm, of hands and sticks coaxing sound from skin, of people joining together, each playing a simple rhythm, with the many simple rhythms melting into a single stream of infinite diversity. “Jivometric” characterizes the way language rolls off the tongue and tickles the ear; its meaning is secondary to its sound. Jivometrics is thus a principle of grace. A treatise may have drummological ideas, but if the language lacks grace, then the treatise is not jivometric — jiveturkey is all too often the appropriate term. In the most profound works of this school jivometrics and drummology are joined through agape.

The following story is based on information from the recently discovered papers of Cassius Photon Gaillard, aka Slim. He was a Mystic Jewel who had studied Jivometrics with the masters.

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by Liam Heneghan

Walking is a foundational practice, amounting in natural history to methodology. Charles Darwin in his Journal and remarks 1832–1836 more commonly known as The Voyage of the Beagle (1839) used the verb “walk”, or variants thereof, almost twice as frequently as the verb “sail” (walk, 94; sail 50). Darwin’s was more a journey on foot than a voyage by ocean. In fact “walking” is more prevalent in Darwin’s Voyages than it is in Walden, written by Thoreau that most legendary walker. Thoreau, however, has more to say about walking qua walking than Darwin. In his essay Walking (1862) Thoreau proclaimed that “I cannot preserve health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day — and it is commonly more than that — sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements.”

Thoreau’s walking is not, of course, mere exercise, nor is the essay Walking an instructional treatise though it does tell us something of the where (”the West”) and the how (“…shake off the village…”) of walking. The chiefest value of walking is that it carries the walker “to as strange a country as [he] ever expected to see.” Walking surprises us! Though half our walking time is taken up with the return to “the old hearth-side from which we set out”, nonetheless, the true spirit of walking consists of “the spirit of undying adventure”, from which we might never return.

For all of his talk of permanent leave-taking there is Thoreau claimed, a “harmony discoverable between the capabilities of the landscape and a circle of ten miles radius, or the limits of an afternoon walk, and the threescore years and ten of human life.” Thus there exists for Thoreau a non-trivial relationship between walking, our personal finitude, and finding our place in this world.

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by Misha Lepetic

“What would become of us, if we walked only in a garden or a mall?”
~ Thoreau, Walking

The inimitable Liam Heneghan, fellow 3QD-ista, recently posted the following idea for a sit-com:

It is true that Thoreau had great misgivings about the railroad coming to Concord, and he correctly surmised that the train would make his beloved town a suburb of Boston. Somewhat inevitably, this has lead to the following sketches for a series, most likely to be submitted to the History Channel for immediate development into that esteemed channel's next surefire hit. (Note to my agent: While some of these may not seem funny, I can assure you that they are. Humor in the nineteenth century was just a bit different from ours, is all.)

Henry David Thoreau, philosopher, naturalist and iconoclast, is bored and restless. He starts farming beans in his front yard but is soon issued a citation by the homeowners' association. At the next association meeting, with his case on the agenda, he stands up and, in his defense, gives a rousing speech about self-reliance. This is not especially well received. Thinking they can salvage the situation, Thoreau's children persuade their science teacher to make the bean plot their submission to the science fair. However, in order for it to be a legitimate science experiment, the teacher insists that half the plot be planted with GMO beans.

*

Thoreau goes for a walk in the woods and gets lost. He is found and saved by a troop of Boy Scouts. In gratitude, he teaches them to forage for food. However, one of the scouts has a nut allergy. After a lengthy and anxious detour at a hospital, Thoreau returns home with a lawsuit on his hands. (Production note: Scoutmaster to be played by William H. Macy).

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by Jalees Rehman

Summer grass:
That's all that remains
Of warriors' dreams.

–Basho

My favorite scientific experiments are those which resemble a haiku: simple and beautiful with a revelatory twist. This is why the haiku is very well suited for expressing scientific ideas in a poetic form. Contemporary haiku poets do not necessarily abide by the rules of traditional Japanese haiku, such as including a word which implies the season of the poem or the 17 (5-7-5) syllable structure of three verses. Especially when writing in a language other than Japanese, one can easily argue that the original 5-7-5 structure was based on Japanese equivalents of syllables and that there is no need to apply this syllable count to English-language haiku. Even the reference to seasons and nature may not apply to a modern-day English haiku about urban life or, as in my case, science.

Does this mean that contemporary haiku are not subject to any rules? In the introductory essay to an excellent anthology of English-language haiku, “Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years“, the poet Billy Collins describes the benefit of retaining some degree of structure while writing a haiku:

Many poets, myself included, stick to the basic form of seventeen syllables, typically arranged in three lines in a 5-7-5 order. This light harness is put on like any formal constraint in poetry so the poet can feel the comfort of its embrace while being pushed by those same limits into unexpected discoveries. Asked where he got his inspiration, Yeats answered, “in looking for the next rhyme word.” To follow such rules, whether received as is the case with the sonnet or concocted on the spot, is to feel the form pushing back against one's self-expressive impulses. For the poet, this palpable resistance can be a vital part of the compositional experience. I count syllables not out of any allegiance to tradition but because I want the indifference and inflexibility of a seventeen-syllable limit to balance my self-expressive yearnings. With the form in place, the act of composition becomes a negotiation between one's subjective urges and the rules of order, which in this case could not be simpler or firmer.

The seventeen syllable limit – like any other limit or rule in poetic forms – provides the necessary constraints that channel our boundless creativity to create a finite poem. It is a daunting task to sit down with a pen and paper, and try to write a poem about a certain topic. Our minds and souls are flooded with a paralyzing plethora of images and ideas. But, as Collins suggests, if we are already aware of certain rules, it becomes much easier to start the process of poetic filtering and negotiation.

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by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

Language on the tongue is need and desire and now, but more potently, it is the taste of ancestral memory: the truest flavor of our origins, almost indescribable and yet at the root of the desire for expression itself, like Michelangelo’s Adam reaching for God, permanently in pursuit of exactitude but touching only the energies emanating from it. Language is a wick in the space between their hands, burning with the desire for precision, joining past and present. The words we rummage for most desperately are the ones that were let loose by our forebears to inhabit this space between identification and imagination. It is in the nature of such words to float, like pollen, into the future, and germinate into poetry. If ever there was a language that hangs like pollen, it is Urdu— and a poetic form that allows for those floating, protean, seemingly disharmonious or paradoxical ideas to engage with one another, it is the ghazal.

Urdu, a hybrid, hangs between its many “parent” languages, between the divergent cultures and histories of its speakers— the people of the Indian subcontinent; it hangs between the imperial past of Indian Muslims who ruled India for a millennium, and their unique partitions post-Raj (British rule: 1857-1947), their new identities in our times as India, Pakistan, Bangladesh. As the state language of Pakistan, Urdu hangs between the educated and the unlettered, between regional culture and ruling culture, between serving the immediate function as a communication tool for people of different provinces (with their own linguistic traditions and literatures) and the civilizational function of tethering the heritage of a millennium-long imperial culture to Pakistan’s evolving identity. It hangs ready to pollinate new time with old time.

“Urdu,” a variant of the Turkic “Ordu,” meaning “camp” or “army,” evolved due to the mixing of languages by soldiers employed in the extensive military of the Muslim empires of India (711-1857). Native speakers of North Indian languages as well as Persian, Arabic, Turkic Chagatai and others (English among them) were part of the army and the court, as various Muslim dynasties themselves came from different linguistic backgrounds and constantly imported not only soldiers, but scholars, builders and artisans from neighboring regions. A language with many dialects in the early phases of its formation, Urdu developed over centuries and came to find somewhat of a standardized form around the seventeenth century.

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