Intro: This chapter veers unapologetically into two things I’ve been unable to get over in the past month: our stubborn attachment to concrete identity and the best television I’ve watched in a long time, ‘Kohrra.’ Blame it, in part, on Punya’s recent response chapter on the art of syllabus design, which reminded me how tightly we cling to structure and defined roles — in classrooms and in life. Once that connection surfaced, this felt inevitable.

We Like Concrete Identites…Or It Seems

Punya’s last chapter response got me thinking about the nature of syllabi and what our affirmation of definitive learning metrics and boundaries does to us and those around us. Bear with me here, but there is a deep connection to this incredible show I just finished, “Kohrra” (hot take, but I’ll stand by it – best show from India on streaming platforms). Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Punya and I were talking about this while I was going through the final episodes of Season 2, but in any case, the interrogation of structure and uniformity got me thinking about how we see identity. 

More specifically, when we do not implement approaches that allow for pause and varying rhythm in classrooms, what we are doing is asserting a single direction and motion. We are asserting that what we, not the students or community members, dictate the pace. There is one, linear way of doing things and determining success, and this is it. So, in the last chapter, Punya highlights how syllabus design is as important an art as the teaching itself, classroom design, and the content – it enables learners to be contributors. It allows the educator and student to recognize each other’s reflections. Through a pause, individual perspectives are values without the burden of content overload. 

But what urges us to keep a concrete, seemingly unalterable approach to teaching and learning? What within us seeks this structure and linear approach to learning beyond the classroom and syllabus? If you want a case study of what Punya had discussed, observe a class next time you or someone experiments with not intentionally providing clear instructions in an activity. In other words, to emphasize the point of open-endedness, I had assigned a reflection paper with rhetorical questions and little-to-no clarity in a rubric. What resulted was tremendous student perspective, discussions in subjectivity, and personal stories, but only after questions and concerns about what or how they were supposed to complete the assignment. But, WHY? Actually, I would react the same – why do we seek such rigidity in environments, when we know the other side leads us to some real insight about who we are, what we learned, and how it can stay with us? 

Where Is The Fog?

As I was watching the final episodes of “Kohrra,” a potential perspective was highlighted. For those who have not seen it yet, the show takes us through a murder (separate in each season) in rural Punjab. In both seasons, the main characters investigate not only the family and societal structures that led to the heinous crime, but also the sources of suffering and separation in their own lives. Now, that could mean battling the age-old assumptions about how familial relations ought to be or discovering how masculinity just won’t let them do their jobs effectively. In either case, it’s riveting: the show does not spoon feed, and allows the characters to transform. In Hindi, the title of the show means fog or mist. Now, this can be taken literally in terms of the morning fog of Punjab or figuratively in terms of the unclear culprit. But, to me, it reflected the nature of identity – we seek concrete definitions in each of our roles. But, when we investigate the basis of these identities that we have created, what is left? What makes Kohrra so compelling is not simply the mystery it unravels, but the identities it slowly dissolves. At the outset, the characters appear clearly defined: police officer, mother, brother, wife, lover, etc. Their roles seem fixed, reinforced by society, patriarchy, duty, ambition, and reputation. Yet as the narrative unfolds, those identities begin to fracture. Not because they disappear, but because experience forces them to confront the gap between who they think they are and what they actually embody.

To me, that is the metaphysical kohrra — the fog of identity. We often define ourselves in linear terms: our profession, our achievements, our failures, our gender, our social standing. These labels feel solid, almost protective. In seeking clarity through rigid definition, we often lose the fluidity necessary for becoming. Identity hardens. And when the role cracks, when success falters, when relationships shift, when expectations collapse, suffering follows. We cling to a version of ourselves that no longer holds.

In Kohrra, masculinity and bondage hover quietly but powerfully beneath the surface. Without revealing plot details, the show portrays men who believe they must guard and dictate the norms they have inherited. Their attachment to authority, control, and ownership reveals not strength but fragility. When those structures are challenged, what lies beneath is not grounded identity but an anxious ego: empty yet defensive. The fog thickens precisely because they refuse to question what they are so fiercely protecting.

The show suggests something unsettling: beneath the titles, beneath the performances of power or respectability, our notion of identity is actually foggy. And this has implications far beyond television.

In education, we replicate this rigidity more often than we admit. We define students as “good” or “difficult,” “motivated” or “unserious.” As Punya discussed, we craft syllabi that assume a certain kind of learner, linear, compliant, productive. When someone resists that mold, we often interpret it as a lack of discipline or attitude. What if our insistence on clarity, on defined learning outcomes, fixed trajectories, measurable success, mirrors the same egoic attachment we witness in the show?

When fear of letting go governs identity, exploration narrows. The syllabus becomes a script rather than a space. Students learn to perform roles rather than inhabit inquiry.

To pause. To reflect. To critically question. To admit uncertainty. These are not signs of weakness. They are acts of intellectual courage. When we intentionally build moments of reflection into classroom structure, moments where both educator and student examine who they think they are, we create space to encounter the kohrra of identity. Perhaps the fog is not something to clear entirely. The brilliance of Kohrra lies in its refusal to resolve identity into something tidy. And maybe that is the deeper lesson: clarity does not come from clinging to a role. It comes from loosening our grip long enough to see what remains when the titles fall away.

Classroom Project Design

I see this play out each semester in a college course where the midterm is not an exam, but a creative artifact. Students are asked to begin with introspection via journaling, to interrogate an idea, a tension, a contradiction in their own lives, and then represent that interrogation in any form they choose. A 3-D printed model. A short film or piece of music. A prototype. A laser engraved door sign. A stitched object. A data visualization. There are almost no rules about what the artifact must be. The only requirement is that the student be able to articulate how the work reflects their introspection.

Every semester, discomfort surfaces almost immediately. “What are the exact expectations?” “How will this be graded?” “What does an A look like?” The absence of rigid instructions feels destabilizing. The fog makes us uneasy.

But as the multi-week project unfolds, something shifts. Students begin to realize that the assessment is not hidden inside a rubric; it is embedded in the depth of their inquiry. For instance, a student who is studying to be an engineering teacher in high school, designed and made a cross-body bag with sustainable materials. The details and utility advantages of the bag were rooted in her heritage – women who are from the same cultural background often require such a bag but always find that the color, sewing, and pockets don’t suit well for their use. In all, she repurposed existing materials to design an artifact that she could not only use, but implement as an exemplar of how problem-solving was inherent in her upbringing. Her subjective investigation, discovery of what her community needs, and articulation of her creation are sufficient for a fruitful project! Their work is not evaluated by how neatly it fits a template, but by how honestly it confronts identity and uncertainty. The artifact becomes less about product and more about process. I attempt to emphasize the recognition that identity is not a fixed, finished category but an investigation. At that moment, I hope the classroom mirrors thekohrra.