Roid: A haunting portrait of identity and erasure

Across human history, naming has been one of the earliest ways of recognising existence. A name is more than a word; it carries memory, identity, and a place in the world. In mythology, religion, and literature, names often hold remarkable power. Adam has a name, Eve has a name, and even the serpent remains a lasting symbol in human imagination. But what happens when a woman exists without a name?

The first thing that strikes you about 'Roid' is the wind. It is not merely a background sound. It rushes through the landscape with such force that it feels like a living, breathing presence. We see a vast green expanse of trees, water, and grass, framed by silent mountains in the distance. In the middle of this immense landscape stands a fragile house built from straw and scraps. Inside live Shadhu and his wife. She has no name. Throughout the film, she is known only as "Shadhu's wife". Yet she has a goat, and the goat has a name: Kulsum.

This small detail reveals one of the film's most painful ideas. Kulsum is called by name, remembered, and cared for almost like a family member. The woman, however, exists only as an extension of Shadhu. What makes this especially cruel is that the film carries her entire emotional journey. It is her suffering, loneliness, madness, and resilience that shape the story. Roid shows how a person can live, struggle, and survive, while still being denied an independent identity. 

Kulsum is the wife's closest companion and constant presence. She lives with the couple, follows the wife everywhere, and even sleeps in their bedroom. To the wife, Kulsum is a rare source of comfort and affection in an otherwise desolate world. While others dismiss the wife as a madwoman, the goat remains by her side without fear or judgment. At times, Kulsum seems less like a pet and more like the wife's shadow, or even a reflection of her own neglected existence.

The isolation of Shadhu and his wife begins very early in the film. Shortly after their marriage, when they arrive at their new home, they remain largely cut off from others. Their small house stands alone amid open fields and distant mountains. The wind, the sounds of nature, and the vast emptiness of the landscape create a world detached from ordinary life. At times, it is as if director Mejbaur Rahman Sumon has built an entire planet inhabited only by Shadhu, his wife, and Kulsum.

But even within this extreme isolation, they never feel completely alone. Throughout the film, there is a lingering feeling that someone invisible is watching them. Sometimes it peers from behind the tall grass. Sometimes it watches from inside the house. Sometimes it looks down from above, as if the sky itself has an eye. Joaher Musavvir Jyoti's cinematography creates this sensation beautifully. The camera shakes, hides, waits, and observes. We never know who is watching, but we feel the presence.

Certain moments in "Roid" evoke the magic realism of Gabriel García Márquez's Macondo. Unusual things happen, yet nobody tries to explain them away as ordinary events. The idea of the forbidden fruit is one of the most unsettling motifs in the narrative. In "Roid", what exactly is this fruit? Is it the injustice Shadhu inflicts upon his wife? Is it desire, guilt, cruelty, or the heavy burden of the body? The film offers no clear answer, and that ambiguity is precisely what makes the symbol so potent.

It feels as though Shadhu has tasted something from which there is no return. From that moment, his punishment begins. He tries to distance himself from his wife, yet she returns. He attempts to escape responsibility, yet the consequences of his actions keep finding their way back to him. Here, the forbidden fruit is not a single act of transgression, but a cycle. The punishment is not a final judgement; it is the endless repetition of guilt.

The sound design by Sajib Ranjan Biswas, Rajesh Saha, and Rasheed Sharif Shoaib is one of the film's strongest assets. The howling wind, the rural silence, and the animal noises make the environment feel alive and deeply disturbing. Sazal Alok's editing gives the film a slow, hypnotic rhythm, while the production design makes the house and landscape feel real, strange, and mythical all at once.

Nazifa Tushi gives a haunting performance as Shadhu's wife. Her madness never feels decorative. It feels lonely, childlike, frightening, and undeniably human. Mostafizur Noor Imran brings an equal level of complexity to Shadhu. He is weak, guilty, tired, afraid, and sometimes exceptionally cruel. Their relationship is highly uncomfortable to watch, but impossible to ignore.