The last time I wrote a blog, I was sitting with rejection.
Not the dramatic kind. Not the loud, door-slamming kind. The quiet kind. The kind that files your work away as “unsuccessful” and leaves you staring at something you poured your whole self into, wondering what just happened.
I wrote from the shelf.
And now, I’m writing from somewhere else entirely.
Because this time, Arts Council England said yes.
It’s hard to explain what that yes actually does to your body when you’ve spent years bracing for no. When you’ve trained yourself to soften the blow before it even lands. When every application feels like trying to translate your entire existence into something legible, fundable, and “strong enough.”
This was my third time applying.
Third.
Time.
Charm.
And I don’t say that lightly. Because between the first no and this yes, there were years. Years of rewriting. Years of reshaping. Years of sitting in that messy middle I talked about before, where work doesn’t die, but it doesn’t move either. It just… waits.
Back in 2023, Besharam (Shame-LESS) premiered. It had life. It had backing. It had momentum. But turning it into something that could tour, grow, and reach wider audiences? That became its own battle. One that came with closed doors, vague feedback, and the constant feeling of being almost there but not quite.
And somewhere in that process, something shifted.
Instead of forcing Besharam into spaces that couldn’t quite hold it, I started listening to what wanted to come next.
That’s where Khandan (Family) – The Shame Generation was born.
Not as a replacement. Not as a compromise. But as an evolution.
And now, because of this funding, I actually get to make it.
Let me say that again, because it still feels surreal:
I get to make the work I want to make.
There’s a kind of exhale that comes with that. A weight lifting off your shoulders that you didn’t even realise you were carrying in your jaw, your chest, your sleep. It’s validation, yes. But it’s also permission. Permission to trust that the stories I’m telling matter. That my voice matters. That being a queer, British Pakistani, neurodivergent artist isn’t something to squeeze into a system, but something that can shape it.
And now, we’re moving.
The marketing is out. The wheels are in motion. The ship is leaving the dock.
Khandan (Family) – The Shame Generation is a solo show drawn from my own life. It travels through time, memory, and belonging. From fear in my mum’s kitchen in Bradford to hope in a Manchester bedsit. It’s about family duty, clouds of shame, queer spaces that feel like home… and the complicated truth that even chosen family can hurt you too.
It’s funny. It’s tender. It’s honest.
It’s a love story, in all the ways that word can stretch.
And in true Sid fashion, it’s also a bit of a space odyssey.
Captain Sid is back in the chair. Systems warming. Engines humming. Warping back into queer space.
And the best part?
I’m not doing it alone.
I get to reunite with collaborators who helped shape Besharam into what it was. Artists who don’t just understand the work, but understand me.
Jenn Wilson returns with her sharp dramaturgical eye and deep care for process.
Roann Hassani McCloskey is back on board, continuing to push me to ask the hard questions and tell the truth.
Ollie Pocket brings their creative energy into the mix.
And now, the crew is expanding.
I’m excited to be working with a new producing partner, Queer Northern, alongside powerhouse producer Louis Lisle, whose belief in the work adds real momentum to this next chapter.
I also need to honour the people who’ve been holding this work from the beginning. Bradford Arts Centre have consistently made space for the work to exist and grow.
Alex Corvin and Alex Croft have been instrumental in that support, backing the vision and allowing it to thrive.
And on the funding journey itself, Hannah Bentley has been incredible. The kind of support that doesn’t just guide an application, but genuinely helps you navigate the system without losing yourself in it.
Then there are the new partners stepping into this world with me.
Happy Valley Pride.
Stage@Leeds.
And more still to be announced.
That part feels big.
Because it means people are noticing.
The work is landing.
The story is travelling.
And after everything, that recognition feels brilliant, exciting, and, if I’m honest, a little bit emotional.
And through all of this, there’s one person who has been there in a way that goes beyond the work.
My fiancé, Richard Cooper.
He has been my strength, my love, and my constant. The person who sees me for me and reminds me of my worth, especially in the moments where I lose sight of it. He’s sat through the ADHD highs and lows, the breakups with projects, the breakdowns with systems, and everything in between.
And he’s still here.
Still laughing. Still smiling. Still giving the best cuddles. Still reminding me, every single day, that I can do this. That I should keep going. That there’s always another wave of change coming.
To have someone who gets emotional seeing you thrive… that kind of love is rare.
I’m so lucky to have him in my corner.
He is, without question, my number one.
Because behind every “yes” like this, there are the quiet, steady voices that carried you through all the “no’s.”
And now, here we are.
I’m excited.
I’m nervous.
I’m very aware that this is the beginning of another intense, messy, beautiful process.
But I’m ready.
Ready to step back into the final frontier. Ready to tell stories that don’t get seen enough. Ready to put this work in front of the people who need it, and the people who didn’t even know they needed it yet.
If the last blog was written from the shelf…
This one is written from launch.
And this time, I’m not drifting.
I’ve got my crew.
I’ve got my people.
And we’re going full warp.
Dhamaka Arts 