A reflection by Gulnaz Brennan
There is no official name for it—actually, scratch that. There is. It’s called herpetophobia: an intense fear of reptiles and amphibians, including snakes, frogs, and yes, lizards. And if herpetophobia had a poster child, it might very well be me.
As a child growing up in the heat-soaked heart of a South Asian summer, I learned early on that the season brought not only mangoes, melons, and sweet leachies—but also the dreadful return of the household lizard. While others celebrated the arrival of fruit-laden branches and bowls of chilled watermelon, I would scan every ceiling like a soldier on duty. Before stepping into the bathroom, I would demand a full-scale inspection. I would not—could not—enter unless someone confirmed it was lizard-free.
That someone was always my grandmother. My first call of panic. The only person who would indulge this seemingly irrational fear with a steady hand and a soft heart. Everyone else had long dismissed me with a laugh or a shrug. But she? She understood. She’d walk in, peer up, spot the creature, and chase it away like it was nothing. She had no fear, just presence. She was my shield.
It’s funny how the mind remembers things. Not in great dramatic arcs but in flashes. A lizard disappearing behind a photo frame. A hot afternoon with curtains drawn, and one sitting right above the fan. My own breath held hostage until I was rescued.
When I moved to the UK many moons ago, I found comfort in many things: the gentle hush of early mornings, the endless patchwork of green fields, the crisp air that carried the scent of something new. But perhaps the greatest of all—there were no lizards. Cold climates have their perks, and this was mine.
For more than a decade, I have missed India’s mango season. Supermarkets in England do their best. They stock the Alphonso and the Langra, but they don’t carry my mango—the Dasheri. The long, green-skinned, honey-sweet fruit that only a summer in the subcontinent can provide. So this year, I planned it differently. I would come to India in time for the mangoes. I would feast on fruit and family. I would take my work with me—after all, July and August are our judging months at SheInspires. With everything virtual, it doesn’t matter where I am—Bolton, Bengaluru, or beyond.
And while I don’t judge myself, I do organise. I hold the backstage strings. I coordinate the panels, manage the timetables, support our phenomenal judges, and ensure that everything flows as smoothly as it should—with Ray, of course, at the helm of affairs.
It has been a good decision. A change of place does wonders. I slow down. I listen. I eat with intention. I focus on a few meaningful things instead of being pulled in every direction. I feel like myself.
Except.
There is a lizard.
A stubborn, silent, unmoving lizard. It has taken residence right above the kitchen door—on top of the light bulb, no less. The kitchen, that sacred space of work and tea and chats, is now under surveillance. Every time I go to enter, I look up. And there it is. Still. Watching. Existing. Unbothered by my terror.
I have tried every tactic short of setting the house on fire. I have stared at it, pleaded with it (silently), hoped for a natural relocation. It refuses to move. And so, I have found myself doing the unthinkable. I live with the lizard.
Not comfortably. Not bravely. But I live with it.
There is something strangely symbolic about it, though. About phobias that stay lodged in the psyche, about the things we think we cannot survive—until we do. I still flinch. I still open the kitchen door with a mini-prayer. But I go in. I carry my cup of chai past the creature. I cook my eggs. I get on with the day.
And somewhere between setting up judging panels and avoiding eye contact with the lizard, I realise that we often learn to live with what we fear. Not because we stop fearing it. But because life demands it.
And because mangoes are worth it.
— Gulnaz Brennan
