One of India’s most renowned neurosurgeons, Dr Mazda Turel, reflects on the delicate balance between medicine, mortality, and meaning — and why the brain remains humanity’s greatest mystery.
By Amber Dias
Among the most respected and recognisable names in Indian neurosurgery, Dr Mazda Turel has built a reputation that extends far beyond the operating room. Known for his precision, empathy, and deeply human approach to medicine, he stands at the forefront of modern neurosurgical practice in India, balancing clinical excellence with a rare gift for storytelling and communication. Over the years, Dr Turel has become not only a trusted surgeon for patients navigating some of life’s most vulnerable moments but also a compelling public voice who has helped demystify the complexities of the brain for a wider audience through his writing, podcast appearances, lectures, and digital presence.
In this conversation, he reflects on the emotional realities of neurosurgery and the stories behind his new book, ‘Bheja Fry’.
Take us back to the beginning. What first drew you to neurosurgery, and was there a defining moment early in your career that shaped the kind of doctor you wanted to become?
I wish I could tell you there was a cinematic moment — lightning struck, violins played, and a glowing brain floated down from the heavens. In reality, it was slower and more consistent but just as dramatic. I fell in love with the sheer audacity of neurosurgery when my father, also a neurosurgeon, would come home each night and play videos of the operation he had performed that morning and one could see the majestic nature of the brain under the magnification and illumination of the microscope. The idea that a three-pound organ can create Beethoven, biryani recipes, heartbreak and wars… and yet can be altered by a tumour the size of a pea — that fascinated me.
During training, I realised neurosurgery is not really about operating on the brain. It’s about operating on hope, fear, identity, memory, movement, speech — the things that make us us. You’re never just removing a tumour. You’re trying to preserve a person’s ability to hug their child, remember their spouse, or walk into a room remembering who they are.
One defining moment for me was seeing a patient who was completely comatose before surgery for removal of a blood clot, wake up a few minutes after surgery and ask for tea. Not because tea was medically important — although in India, one could argue it is — but because it reminded me that success in medicine is not MRI images or surgical videos. It’s the restoration of ordinary life.
Neurosurgery often sits at the intersection of lifealtering decisions. How have you learnt to navigate that responsibility over the years?
In the beginning, the responsibility feels crushing. You think your hands alone carry the outcome. Over time, you realise humility is just as important as confidence. Neurosurgery forces you to become very comfortable with uncertainty. Patients want certainty. Families want certainty. Surgeons secretly want certainty. Biology rarely cooperates. So I’ve learnt that honesty is more valuable than bravado. Patients don’t actually expect perfection. They expect sincerity, clarity, effort, and presence. I often tell younger doctors: Confidence is important in surgery, but arrogance is dangerous because the brain has a very efficient way of humiliating you.
The other thing I’ve learnt is that difficult conversations are also a form of treatment. Sometimes, sitting with a family for 20 minutes and explaining things calmly is more therapeutic than the operation itself. And strangely, carrying this responsibility has made me lighter outside the hospital. When you spend your days seeing how fragile life is, you stop postponing joy. You call people back sooner. You take holidays more seriously. You become less impressed by nonsense.
Beyond technical expertise, what qualities do you believe truly define a great neurosurgeon today?
Technical skill is the entry ticket. It’s not the whole performance. A great neurosurgeon needs judgment. Knowing when not to operate is often more important than knowing how to operate. The older I get, the more I realise restraint is a superpower. Communication matters enormously too. Patients are terrified when they come to us. Most people hear the words “brain or spine surgery” and immediately begin mentally updating their will. So the ability to simplify complexity without sounding dismissive is critical. Empathy matters. Curiosity matters. Calmness matters. And stamina — both physical and emotional. But above all, I think humility defines longevity in this profession. The brain is the most sophisticated structure in the known universe. If you stop respecting it, it will remind you very quickly. Also, one deeply underrated quality in medicine is kindness to nurses and junior staff. If the scrub nurse looks worried, you should probably listen. In neurosurgery, survival occasionally depends on the person handing you the bipolar forceps.
In a profession that can be physically and emotionally demanding, how do you personally cope with stress and maintain balance?
Poorly at first. Medicine trains us to handle pressure, but not necessarily to process emotion. Early in your career, you think resilience means becoming emotionally numb. It doesn’t. It means learning how to feel things without drowning in them. For me, writing has been enormously therapeutic. Humour too. Neurosurgeons have surprisingly dark senses of humour — not because we’re insensitive, but because humour is how human beings metabolise fear.
Exercise helps. Travel helps. Climbing Kilimanjaro helped because a mountain is wonderfully uninterested in your CV. At 18,000 feet, nobody cares how many aneurysms you clipped.
And family helps tremendously. Coming home after a 12-hour skull base surgery and being asked by your daughters to go for a walk post-dinner is psychologically healthy. It reminds you that life is bigger than the operating room. I’ve also learned that balance is not a permanent state. It’s dynamic. Some weeks medicine wins. Some weeks life wins. The trick is making sure neither disappears completely.
In a career as demanding as yours, how has your family played a role in supporting and grounding you, and how do you make space for them?
Medicine is never practised by the doctor alone. Families silently carry part of the profession.
My family has tolerated cancelled dinners, interrupted holidays, late-night calls, and the strange reality that neurosurgeons can become emotionally invested in MRI scans at dinner, even after looking at them all day at work. But they also keep me grounded. In the hospital, people sometimes treat surgeons with intimidating seriousness. At home, you’re just the person who needs to change a light bulb. And that’s important. I think the challenge is not just “making time” but being truly present during the time you do have. Patients deserve focus in the OT. Family deserves focus outside of it. Also, children are excellent at destroying whatever ego surgery creates. You can save someone’s life in the morning and still lose an argument to a 9-year-old by evening. That’s healthy for the soul.
Tell us about your new book, ‘Bheja Fry’. What can readers expect and what would you like them to take away from it?
‘Bheja Fry’ is essentially a collection of stories from inside the world of neurosurgery — but told in a very humane way. The book explores patients, surgeries, fear, humour, absurdity, hope, mortality, and the bizarre things that happen when human beings are pushed into vulnerable situations. There are moments that are emotional, funny, uncomfortable, and occasionally surreal — because hospitals are all of those things.
I want readers to realise that medicine is not just science. It’s storytelling. Every patient walks in with a narrative. Neurosurgeons just happen to enter at the most dramatic chapter. I also wanted to demystify brain surgery a little. People imagine neurosurgeons as cold, hyper-serious robots in blue scrubs. Most of us are just sleep-deprived people trying to stop the brain from behaving creatively. If readers finish the book feeling more curious about the brain, less fearful of medicine, and slightly more appreciative of ordinary life, I’ll be very happy.
You’ve built a strong presence across social media, with your podcast, reels etc. What drives this commitment to engaging with people beyond the operating room?
I realised very early that doctors can no longer afford to communicate only inside hospitals and conferences. If doctors don’t explain medicine properly, somebody on the internet with a ring light and alarming confidence will do it for us. Social media allows us to humanise healthcare. Patients are often intimidated by doctors. But when they hear us speak conversationally, explain concepts simply, admit uncertainty, or even joke a little, it builds trust. I’m also fascinated by storytelling as a tool for education. People rarely remember statistics. They remember stories. If I explain the insula through a patient’s seizure story, or discuss spine surgery through someone’s inability to play with their child because of pain, people understand medicine emotionally rather than academically. And honestly, I think medicine needs more warmth. The future of healthcare cannot just be technologically advanced. It also has to remain deeply human.
Outside of medicine and writing, what brings you joy and helps you unwind?
Travel. Mountains. Bad conversations with good friends. Music. Reading. Spontaneous adventures that later become good stories. I love being outdoors because it recalibrates perspective. Hospitals can make you feel like life is only illness and suffering. Then you go somewhere beautiful and remember humanity also invented poetry, jazz, espresso, and Roger Federer. I also genuinely enjoy conversations with people outside medicine. Doctors can become trapped in medical ecosystems where every discussion begins with “interesting case…” Sometimes it’s refreshing to discuss films, food, history, or why airlines believe human knees are optional. And writing gives me enormous joy because it allows me to process experiences that medicine otherwise forces me to move past very quickly.
What continues to motivate you to keep showing up, day after day?
The privilege of changing someone’s life never becomes ordinary. Even after years in practice, there are still moments in surgery that feel extraordinary — watching someone move a paralysed limb again, seeing a patient’s speech return, removing a tumour that once seemed inoperable. But motivation also comes from responsibility. Patients meet us on some of the worst days of their lives. The least we can do is show up fully prepared. And curiosity continues to drive me. Neuroscience is evolving constantly. Every year, we understand a little more about consciousness, cognition, recovery, and plasticity. The brain remains gloriously mysterious.
Also — and this is important — gratitude motivates me. I still think it’s remarkable that people trust another human being enough to let them operate on their brain. That trust should never become routine.
If you could distill your journey into a single piece of advice, for doctors or even people outside the field, what would it be?
Don’t confuse achievement with meaning. Medicine taught me that life is frighteningly temporary. Tumours don’t care about your five-year plan. Aneurysms are unimpressed by LinkedIn. So work hard. Be ambitious. Pursue excellence. But don’t postpone living until some imaginary future version of success arrives. Call your parents. Travel when you can. Protect your health. Read books. Laugh loudly. Develop interests outside your profession. Tell people you love them while they can still hear it.
And stay curious. Because in the end, the brain’s greatest feature is not intelligence. It’s consciousness — the ability to experience being alive at all.
Rapid Fire
A habit you swear by:
Exercise. The brain works better when the body remembers it exists.
A book you would recommend:
‘When Breath Becomes Air’ — every doctor should read it, and honestly, every human should. Early mornings or late nights: Early mornings, pretending I’m disciplined.
Most underrated skill in medicine:
Listening without interrupting. Also, common sense.
One piece of advice you live by:
Treat every patient as if they were your family.
If not a neurosurgeon, you would be:
Probably an outof-work theatre actor/ writer. Or a failed mountaineer with excellent stories.
One thing you’re still learning:
How to slow down enough to enjoy the life I spent so many years building.
