Dhamaka Arts

There are moments in this job that quietly remind you why you started.

Yesterday was one of those moments.

After Khandan‘s premiere at Bradford Arts Centre, Jenn and I weren’t returning to rehearsals to rebuild the show. We were returning to re-rehearse it. The engine was already built. We simply needed to get it running again.

Those six weeks away from the show gave us fresh eyes. We knew the story worked. We knew the emotional journey was there. Now it was about tuning the performance, finding the joy, sharpening the comedy and leaning further into the cabaret spirit of the piece.

Jenn and I spent our time rediscovering where the show wanted to breathe. They encouraged us to lean into the comedy, make more space for improvisation, invite the audience into the experience and trust the quieter moments just as much as the louder ones. We found new laughs, playful Star Trek references and moments where the audience could become part of the journey.

Then we visited the Trades Club in Hebden Bridge.

The room was intimate. The stage was much smaller than we’d rehearsed for. Suddenly, we weren’t performing to an audience. We’d be performing with them. They would be right there, close enough to catch every smile, every breath and every moment of vulnerability.

Rather than fight the space, we embraced it.

We reworked sections so I could step into the audience. Pride music became an invitation rather than a transition. Jenn filled the room with movement and colour, weaving Pride flags through the space while the audience became part of the celebration instead of simply watching it. The show felt freer. More playful. More alive.

As exciting as all of that was, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious.

Performing in predominantly white spaces can bring its own questions. As a queer British Pakistani artist, I found myself wondering how this audience would receive the work. Would they understand the humour? Would they laugh where I hoped they would? Would they allow themselves to come on the journey with me?

Those thoughts travelled with me to Hebden Bridge.

Thankfully, they didn’t stay for long.

From the moment I arrived, I was welcomed with warmth and generosity. My access needs were understood without question. I had somewhere quiet to decompress, somewhere my ADHD didn’t need to mask or perform. Travelling to unfamiliar places is often one of the most stressful parts of touring for me, so simply knowing where I was parking, where I was going and that everything was organised allowed me to settle into the work.

Then came the tech.

Two hours of cue-to-cues, projections, music levels, lighting tweaks and the organised chaos that every theatre maker knows so well. It was intense, but everyone stayed focused. We worked through every challenge together and, by the end, we were ready.

Then it was back to the green room.

A shower.

Costume.

Quiet.

Breathing.

That’s when the nerves really arrived.

I kept repeating one sentence to myself.

Just tell the story.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Just tell the story.

Jenn smiled and said they were glad I was nervous because it meant I cared. They were right.

Like so many performers, I had that familiar panic that somehow I’d forgotten the entire show. ADHD has an incredible ability to convince you of impossible things. The anxiety tries to trip you just before you step on stage.

But I knew I had this.

As I stood waiting in the Trades Club office, ready to enter through the audience, I focused on my breathing.

Then the music started.

I walked into the room.

I said hello.

And everything else disappeared.

The audience leaned in.

They laughed.

They gave themselves permission to laugh.

The emotional moments landed exactly where they needed to. The quieter scenes were held with incredible generosity. The comedy found a new rhythm. Jenn and I bounced off each other, improvising, riffing and discovering new moments together in real time.

Three times the audience applauded during the performance.

Then, at the end, they stood.

It was, without question, the strongest performance of Khandan to date.

What stayed with me wasn’t only the standing ovation.

It was what happened afterwards.

People came to speak with me. They thanked me for sharing the work. They spoke about community, belonging and recognising parts of themselves in the story. One young artist told me it was the closest they’d seen a piece come to reflecting their own lived experience.

Moments like that stay with you.

They remind you why stories matter.

They remind you that theatre isn’t simply about entertaining people.

It’s about making space.

Yesterday also reminded me of something else.

For years I imagined my career would be about performing stories written by other people. I never imagined I’d be creating my own work, touring it around the country and sharing the most vulnerable parts of myself with complete strangers.

There is something incredibly empowering about taking ownership of your own story.

None of this has happened because of one person. It exists because of collaboration, trust and a team who believe in the work as much as I do. They know who they are, and I’m endlessly grateful for their care, honesty and commitment to this journey.

As I sit back home in Manchester writing this, I’m exhausted.

Not burnt-out exhausted.

Fulfilled exhausted.

The kind of tiredness that only arrives after you’ve given everything you have to something you truly love.

Today I’ve given myself permission to rest.

To smile.

To reflect.

Yesterday gave me confidence.

Confidence that this show has an audience.

Confidence that people connect with it.

Confidence that there is space for stories like mine.

Perhaps most importantly, it reminded me why I keep making theatre.

Because somewhere in that audience may be someone who sees a little of themselves reflected on stage and realises they aren’t alone.

I can’t think of a greater privilege than being part of that.

So here’s to the next audience.

The next venue.

The next adventure.

The journey continues.

And whenever doubt decides to beam itself back aboard, I’ll remember the words that carried me through one unforgettable evening.

Just tell the story.