Dhamaka Arts

This week felt monumental.

Not just because we worked hard. Not just because I’m running on caffeine, adrenaline, emotional honesty and whatever scraps of serotonin are left in my ADHD brain. But because this week, during Phase 2 of the creative process, something shifted.

We have a script.

A full working script.

That sentence still feels surreal to say out loud.

After weeks of digging through memories, time travelling through grief, shame, joy, family, queerness, sci-fi chaos and deeply specific Bradford experiences… there is now an actual living breathing draft of Khandan sitting in front of us. Messy, evolving, exciting, funny, emotional and completely alive.

And honestly? That deserves celebrating.

Because this process hasn’t just been about “writing a play.” It’s been about building a universe. A world where queer brown northern stories get to exist loudly, proudly and unapologetically centre stage.

One of the biggest moments of this week has been welcoming the incredible Amanda Huxtable onto the project as director.

Amanda is an absolute powerhouse. A visionary artist, director and dramaturg with decades of experience shaping bold, exciting theatre across the UK. I’ve known Amanda for over ten years, but last year we finally got to work together for the first time on The Engagement Party. To now have Amanda joining us on Khandan honestly feels exciting on a whole other level.

It genuinely feels like the right people are gathering around this work at the right time.

And what a crew we’ve assembled.

Jenn Wilson. Amanda Huxtable. Louis Lyle. Ollie Adeyemi. Luke Madzudzo.

Our full crew is officially aboard the USS Khandan.

And I know that sounds camp and ridiculous but honestly? It feels true. We’re all steering this strange beautiful queer brown time-travelling ship together.

I need to take a moment to really shout out Louis, my producer, because honestly he has been phenomenal throughout this process. One of the biggest gifts as an artist is working with somebody who sees the bigger picture while also holding space for you as a human being. Louis somehow always seems one step ahead. Before I even realise I need support, he’s already helping create solutions. That level of care and trust changes everything creatively.

And then there’s Jenn.

This process with Jenn has gone far beyond dramaturgy and story structure.

We’ve had deep, intense conversations this week about belonging, grief, authenticity, family, queerness and what it actually means to build a life around truth.

Not perform truth.

Live it.

We’ve talked a lot about chosen family versus biological family and the complicated emotional terrain between the two. About how grief sits beside us throughout life. About how grief isn’t something you “get over,” but something you learn to carry differently.

Grief as love.

Grief as memory.

Grief as proof that something mattered.

And through those conversations I think I’ve realised that this show isn’t trying to “solve” shame or trauma or family conflict. It’s trying to hold space for the complexity of it all.

Because life is complicated.

You can love your family deeply and still feel wounded by them.

You can feel pride and grief simultaneously.

You can feel joy while carrying sadness.

And I think Khandan is finally allowing all of those contradictions to sit in the same room together.

That feels important.

Especially right now.

Because we are living in a political and cultural moment where queer people, trans people, migrants, Muslims, people of colour and working-class communities are constantly being pushed to the margins of public conversation. We’re seeing increasing hostility towards communities simply trying to exist authentically.

So telling queer brown northern stories right now matters.

Not because we’re trying to be “diverse.”

Not because it’s trendy.

But because these stories are real.

They deserve space.

They deserve nuance.

They deserve joy.

And honestly? They deserve sci-fi references, auntie jokes, emotional chaos and deeply inappropriate conversations about Grindr and shame and belonging too.

That’s why this work has to exist.

And this week reminded me that creating theatre like this requires balance too.

I’ve been thinking a lot about self-care during the process.

The pressure of leading a project like this can feel immense sometimes. The pressure of telling a deeply personal story. The pressure of representing communities. The pressure of “getting it right” as a queer person of colour in an industry where it often feels like you have to work twice as hard just to stand in the same room.

There were moments this week where it genuinely felt like my mind was being crushed in a vice.

Which is why I’ve been so grateful for the support provided through the Arts Council access fund. It’s allowed me to invest in PT sessions and kickboxing to help regulate my nervous system during the process.

And honestly? It’s been essential.

Some days the best creative decision you can make is hitting pads for an hour instead of staring at a script in paralysis.

This week has also been packed outside the rehearsal room too. Press interviews, meetings, creative planning, team conversations, interviews for new collaborators and trying to hold together the many moving pieces of a large-scale theatre project.

At one point I genuinely felt like I was operating on pure hyperfocus and iced coffee.

But underneath all the exhaustion has been something bigger.

Purpose.

Real purpose.

And that’s exciting.

I can feel things slowly falling into place creatively and personally. I’m beginning to see the future of this body of work more clearly. The final part of the trilogy exploring spirituality. Future shows exploring ADHD, relationships, queer intimacy, fetishisation, identity and what it means to exist in brown skin in queer spaces.

There’s so much more to say.

So much more to explore.

And maybe that’s the biggest lesson from this week:

Trust the process.

Even the title of the show evolved through that trust.

We originally started with The Wrath of Khandan: The Shame Strikes Back.

Big. Camp. Chaotic. Very me.

But over time, through conversations, reflection and development, the title shifted into Khandan: The Shame Generation.

And honestly?

That evolution says everything about the process itself.

We weren’t precious.

We listened.

We allowed the work to grow beyond our original ideas.

And the new title feels deeper somehow. It speaks to lineage. Generational shame. Inherited silence. What gets passed down through families. But also what can be interrupted. What can change.

Where we started.
Where we are now.
And where we’re heading.

That’s what this process has been about.

Growth.

Trust.

Evolution.

And throughout all of this, Bradford Arts Centre has felt like home.

Truly.

Their support, generosity and belief in this project has meant the world. There’s something deeply emotional about making this work in Bradford, in the city that shaped so much of who I am.

To create queer brown northern theatre here feels powerful.

Like a homecoming.

Like planting a flag and saying:
“We were always here.”

So as we move towards the next phase of development, I just want to say thank you to everyone supporting this journey so far.

You can follow the process over at Instagram via @dhamakaarts and tickets for Khandan: The Shame Generation at Bradford Arts Centre are available now from just £1.

🎟️ Tickets for Khandan (family) – The Shame Generation:

Because this process has become bigger than just making a play.

We’re creating space.

We’re creating connection.

We’re creating futures where people like us can exist fully and loudly.

We’re creating belonging.

We’re creating home.