There is a peculiar silence that comes at the end of making theatre.
Not the silence after the applause fades, or when the auditorium empties. A different silence. One that settles into your bones after years of living inside an idea, only to realise you’ve finally arrived at the place you were always heading.
Today is the final Bradford performance of Khandan – The Shame Generation. As I sit in my hotel room with a cup of tea in hand, looking out across the city that has shaped so much of who I am, I find myself reflecting on the last three years.
Three years.
Three years of blood, sweat, tears, joy, laughter, experimentation, failure, discovery, collaboration and love.
Three years of building something that, at times, felt impossible.
When I began this journey, I didn’t know exactly what Khandan would become. In many ways, I don’t think I knew who I would become either.
From Nikah to Besharam and now Khandan, each piece has been another voyage into queer space. Every show has pushed me further into questions of identity, belonging, family, faith, culture and the wonderfully messy experience of existing as a queer British Pakistani person.
The work has evolved because I’ve evolved.
The stories haven’t simply documented my life.
They’ve changed it.
Today feels bittersweet.
Over the last few weeks I’ve been surrounded by an extraordinary crew of artists. Directors, producers, designers, technicians, stage managers, marketers, venue staff, volunteers, friends and collaborators who have all helped build this ship.
Now, one by one, they’re returning to their own quadrants.
Some head back to Manchester. Others to Liverpool, Leeds, London and beyond. The rehearsal room becomes quieter. The dressing rooms slowly empty. The WhatsApp groups lose their frantic pace.
Being the captain of a project is a strange responsibility.
You spend years inviting brilliant people aboard, steering together through creative storms, celebrating breakthroughs and navigating uncertainty. Then, almost overnight, everyone returns to their own adventures while you remain sitting on the bridge, quietly processing everything you’ve just experienced.
Leadership can feel lonely.
Not because you’re alone.
Because you’re carrying the weight of the journey while simultaneously letting it go.
What surprised me today is how quiet my mind feels.
As someone with ADHD, silence inside my own head is unusual. My brain is usually jumping between a hundred thoughts at warp speed.
Today, though, there’s space.
Enough space to ask the questions that have followed me throughout this trilogy.
Who am I?
Why am I here?
What does my queerness actually mean?
Those questions don’t frighten me anymore.
If anything, they’ve become companions.
Khandan is ultimately a show about family.
Not simply the family we’re born into, but the families we build.
Chosen family is often spoken about as though it appears overnight.
In reality, it’s a garden.
You plant seeds.
Some never grow.
Some bloom unexpectedly.
Some need years before they find the right conditions.
The people who stay become your roots. They remind you who you are when you’ve forgotten yourself. They celebrate your wins without needing to stand in your spotlight. They challenge you, protect you and choose you again and again.
That doesn’t erase blood family.
For many queer people, especially queer people of colour, those relationships remain beautifully complicated.
I still keep the door open.
Not because I have to.
Because hope is an act of courage.
I wonder whether my family will ever fully understand me.
Whether my dad will really see me before it’s too late.
Whether acceptance arrives quietly one ordinary afternoon instead of through some dramatic Hollywood moment.
Those questions remain unanswered.
Perhaps they always will.
But I’ve learned that healing doesn’t always mean finding answers.
Sometimes it means making peace with uncertainty.
One of the greatest gifts this journey has given me has been perspective.
Audience members have thanked me for telling a story they had never seen represented before.
People have shared their own experiences of queerness, faith, migration, identity and family after performances.
Some have simply said, “I felt seen.”
I don’t think I’ll ever become used to hearing those words.
Growing up, I was always just the awkward Star Trek-obsessed Pakistani nerd from Bradford.
I was obsessed with spaceships, strange new worlds and stories about people choosing empathy over fear.
Looking back now, maybe I’ve been writing science fiction all along.
Not because my shows are filled with warp drives and starships.
Because they imagine better futures.
Futures where queer people of colour are centred rather than sidelined.
Where our families are complicated instead of stereotyped.
Where our joy matters just as much as our trauma.
Where we aren’t merely surviving.
We’re exploring.
The last few months have been extraordinary.
Speaking to the BBC.
Seeing Khandan receive national attention.
Watching audiences connect with something that lived inside my imagination for so long.
Sometimes it still feels surreal.
Yet perhaps the achievement I’m proudest of isn’t the press coverage or the reviews.
It’s becoming the artist I once needed.
Someone making work that younger versions of me could have watched and thought, I’m not alone.
As I write this, my fiancé, Rich, is back at Starbase Batley sorting a few things before joining me later.
Over these last three years, he’s witnessed every version of this journey.
Every breakdown.
Every breakthrough.
Every rewrite.
Every late-night panic.
Every tiny victory.
He’s seen me struggle, fight, grow and become the person and artist I am today. More importantly, he’s loved me through every chapter of that journey.
To be truly seen by the person you love, and to know they choose you every single day, is one of life’s greatest privileges.
Today, even with him back at Starbase for a little while, I don’t feel entirely alone.
I carry his love with me onto the stage, just as surely as I carry every person who helped build this show.
Today I feel proud.
I feel content.
I feel deeply grateful.
I also feel lonely.
Those feelings don’t compete with one another.
They coexist.
Perhaps that’s what growing older teaches us.
Life becomes less about replacing emotions and more about making room for all of them.
As I prepare to take Khandan on tour, I realise that what I’m saying goodbye to tonight isn’t the show.
It’s this chapter of the journey.
Bradford will always be home.
Not because I still live here, but because it’s the city that made me.
It’s where I experienced the best and worst of my childhood. It’s where I learned joy, shame, love, fear, resilience and belonging. It’s where I first dreamed of other worlds while trying to understand my own.
Every street holds a memory.
Every familiar landmark reminds me of a different version of myself.
Coming back here feels like walking alongside ghosts.
Some make me smile.
Some still ache.
Bradford has always felt like a city fighting to become the place it knows it can be. There are moments when it feels overlooked, underestimated, almost forgotten by the rest of the country.
Yet beneath that is extraordinary creativity, generosity and resilience.
This city deserves to have its stories told.
Its people deserve to be seen.
Especially its QTIPOC communities.
I know what it feels like to grow up believing there isn’t a place for you.
To wonder whether your queerness, your culture and your faith can exist together.
To search for people who understand without needing you to explain yourself.
That’s why this work matters to me.
If even one person leaves the theatre feeling less alone than when they walked in, then the mission has been worthwhile.
Chosen family isn’t just something I write about.
It’s something I hope audiences leave believing they deserve.
A space where they are loved.
A space where they are safe.
A space where they are celebrated exactly as they are.
As we prepare to take Khandan beyond Bradford, I find myself wondering about the new sectors we’ll explore.
The different audiences we’ll meet.
The conversations we’ll have.
The communities we’ll become part of.
Will people in other cities recognise themselves in this story?
Will they laugh at the same moments?
Will they cry for different reasons?
Will they leave asking the same questions about family, identity and belonging?
I hope so.
Because while Khandan was born in Bradford, it has never only belonged to Bradford.
Its heart belongs to every queer person searching for home.
Every person of colour trying to navigate multiple worlds.
Every family learning how to love one another despite fear.
Every person who’s ever looked to the stars and imagined that somewhere, somehow, there is a place where they truly belong.
Tonight isn’t the end.
Tomorrow we begin a new journey.
The USS Khandan is leaving the Bradford sector and venturing into new corners of queer space.
We’ll encounter new audiences.
New stories.
New conversations.
New chosen family.
The mission continues.
Tonight, as I stand on the bridge, I don’t feel like I’ve reached the end of the mission.
I feel ready for the next one.
Three years ago, I set out to tell stories that centred queer people of colour.
Today, I know that mission is only just beginning.
The stars ahead are filled with possibilities.
Captain’s Log…
Bradford sector complete.
Helm… set course.
Live long and prosper.
Sid Akbar
Captain, Dhamaka Arts
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