I wanted to become a neurosurgeon before I knew how to spell the word. My father, Dr Keki E Turel, who has been a practising neurosurgeon for over 40 years, was already a distinguished name in the field when I was in primary school. In the 1980s, he pioneered microneurosurgery in the country at a time when the brain was being operated on with magnifying loupes. He was also credited with extracting the largest brain tumour in the world at the time, using training techniques acquired in Germany. Given his schedule, we, the family, hardly saw him. My brother Burgese and I would be in bed by the time he got home, but my mother ensured that she revived us as soon as she heard the sound of his 240D Mercedes Benz in the garage three floors below. I remember rubbing my eyes into the bones of my face, wishing him good morning or good night, depending on which side of 12 he arrived.

"What did you operate on today?" I recall asking him routinely. His face would light up as he plugged in the VCR tape of the day's surgeries. On most occasions, he'd have a single malt in his hand, and it was hard to tell which of the two brought him more joy. We spent several nights each week watching videos of brain and spine surgeries, red blood cells whirling around his instruments. He'd enthusiastically explain the details of the wondrous anatomy palpable under the magic lens of the microscope, and I'd nod as if I, at 13, had an understanding of what was going on.