There is a celebration in the air. The Supreme Court of India has just finished its hearing on whether Section 377, an archaic Victorian-era law which criminalises sexual activities “against the order of nature”, should be done away with once and for all.

The queer community in India achieved a victory after decades of activism when the Delhi High Court, in a historic judgment on 2 July 2009, “read down” Section 377 thus legalising consensual homosexual activities between adults. Since then, there have been attempts to change the decision — but finally the hearing is over, and soon the decision is due.

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I was in Kolkata, the city of my birth, the day homosexuality was legalised in 2009. I remember crying when I heard the news being flashed on television. Within moments of the decision, texts started getting sent around and an impromptu vigil was planned outside Nandan. For those unfamiliar with Calcutta’s cultural geography, Nandan is a government-sponsored film and cultural centre and remains to this day a popular cruising ground. By the time I arrived the place was heaving with people. There were colours flying all around and the media had gathered to document what was quite a spectacle.

I grew up in Kolkata under the shadow of Section 377, which effectively criminalised homosexuality and has been used almost exclusively against LGBTQ individuals who continue facing harassment and blackmail. Growing up as a queer teenager in the early 2000s I often heard harrowing tales from friends who had been beaten up by gangs when they went out cruising, or in some instances even taken to prison where police officers demanded a bribe before letting them off with a warning that they would tell their parents about their “immoral lifestyle”. Academics such as Ruth Vanita and Hoshang Merchant have rightly used the term “India’s shame culture” whilst referring to this. If one’s sexuality is made public it not only brings “shame” to the individual but also to their family and larger society.

I belonged to what in my opinion was a pretty liberal working family. My father is a Marxist and supported the Communist Party of India. Public holidays often meant going to party meetings where discussions ranged from issues around nuclear bombs, capitalism and marriage, with names such as Paul Robeson and Friedrich Engels thrown in healthily — but sexuality was never discussed except in hushed tones.

This continued even when I reached adulthood. As one “uncle” once told me — you do not discuss these things, after all even the law prohibits it. When I left India in 2009, I remember my mother looking tired, trying to make conversation and prolong the time before I had to clear airport security. Just before I was about to enter the airport she burst out crying before whispering — “take care of yourself, don’t take harsh decisions. Remember you don’t belong to just yourself but to a family and a society.” I couldn’t wait to get to the United Kingdom, I already knew I was queer and so did she.

In London I discovered independence — from the queer clubs of Vauxhall and Soho to Desi organisations like Naz Project London and Club Kali. Going back to India in 2011 was like rediscovering my city. There were public queer parties being advertised, movies with progressive queer characters, television news programmes with queer content. There was a distinctive confidence; it felt like the fight had been won and it was now time to demand even more. The distinctive garb of anonymity, which cloaked queer culture in the city, had blown away.

Coming out to my parents was in the typical Indian fashion — declaring I would not be getting married. The Delhi High Court decision had paved the way for many parents to accept their children. I had started my PhD on digital queer cultures and several social media groups were devoted to stories of young queer people discussing their coming out stories.

The public visibility of the queer community in India has grown exponentially in the last decade with queer prides in almost all the major metropolises (Bangalore, New Delhi, Mumbai and Kolkata) and smaller cities such as Bhubaneswar and Madurai. This however should not be seen as some form of tacit endorsement/acceptance. We must also remember that the queer struggle in India is far from intersectional. Issues such as class and caste are especially compelling within the “Indian context”.

As it turned out this happiness was short-lived. In 2013 the Supreme Court overturned the High Court’s historic judgment leading to a backtracking of queer recognition and rights. On 15 December 2013 Indians across 32 cities of the world organised the Global Day of Rage to show our outrage and stand in solidarity with our friends and family in India.

After this ruling, even sexual health activists became a target for distributing condoms and educating queer people about sexual health. Activists such as Arif Jafar were put in prison for 47 days and physically tortured. Others like my friend Rashid were distraught that his parents who had always been supportive of him had become the target of his relatives for supporting his “illegal lifestyle” once the Supreme Court decision became public knowledge.

The rallying cry from queer academics and activists had been “no going back”. Of course we have certainly gone back. The liberalism of the previous years has given way to the rise of right wing politics, increased Islamophobia and homophobic and transphobic violence.

The Supreme Court has delivered one of its most important judgements, which will bring dignity to an entire generation of queer individuals who have been denied respect and faced years of being ostracised. Whilst this might not eradicate homophobia it will certainly be a step in the right direction.

By luck I was in India when the decision came. I was happy to be able to go back to the country of my birth where I was no longer a criminal for whom I chose to love.

The independent