“Teaching Is Surgery of the Soul”: A Conversation with Professor Fahad Rizvi
"Teaching Is Surgery of the Soul”: A Conversation with Professor Fahad Rizvi
The morning light filters softly through the blinds of the Cornerstone training suite in Leicester. Stainless-steel instruments gleam on the benches, and the faint scent of antiseptic hangs in the air. Before the first delegates arrive, Professor Fahad Rizvi is already at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging scalpels and forceps as if setting a table for something sacred.
He doesn’t rush. He hums quietly - a tune from his childhood in Delhi - and checks every suture pack himself. When I greet him, he looks up with a grin that’s equal parts warmth and mischief.
"Good teaching," he says, "isn’t about information. It’s about energy. You can feel it when you walk into a room."
We settle with our coffees at the back of the training suite. The walls are lined with anatomical posters, models, and photographs from past courses - moments of learning frozen in time.
"I grew up watching a close family friend teach medical students back home in Delhi," he tells me. "He wasn’t my relative, but to me, he was larger than life. He had this incredible way of turning a simple lesson into something that stayed with you for years. He used to say, ‘Fahad, when you teach, you give someone courage.’ That line never left me."
After finishing medical school in Aligarh, India, Fahad moved to the UK in his late twenties. "Everything felt enormous," he recalls. "Different systems, different expectations, different definitions of success. I remember my first day in theatre - I was so nervous my hands shook. But the senior surgeon beside me said something that changed me: ‘Don’t worry about the tremor. Worry about losing curiosity.’ That became my compass."
He smiles. "You see, the best teachers don’t just correct you. They see you."
When I ask what drives him now, all these years later, to keep teaching with such palpable enthusiasm, he leans forward, eyes bright.
"I’ve been blessed with mentors who shaped not just my skills, but my humanity. Now it’s my turn to pass that on. Every delegate who walks through that door is carrying more than anxiety - they’re carrying a story. My job is to listen to it and help them rediscover what their hands already know."
He gestures toward the benches, now neatly laid out. "Minor surgery is about detail - the tiny flick of a wrist, the millimetre between good and great - but teaching it is about something bigger. It’s about unlocking confidence."
During one of the morning sessions, I watch Fahad circulate among the delegates. He moves quietly, offering small, precise comments. "Lift the skin a touch higher." "Perfect - feel that resistance? That’s the layer you want." When a delegate makes a hesitant incision, he doesn’t correct with criticism but with reassurance. "There’s no fear in this room," he says softly. "Only learning."
Later, over lunch, we talk about how Cornerstone’s philosophy fits his own.
"I’ve taught in hospital theatres, in cramped GP rooms, even outdoors during outreach camps in India," he says, laughing. "But what I love about Cornerstone is that it’s brought the heart back into postgraduate education. It’s not a tick-box exercise. It’s a revival of pride in the craft."
When I ask if he ever tires of repeating the same procedures, he shakes his head.
"Never. Each time someone ties a perfect suture for the first time, it feels new. You can see the spark - the relief, the pride. That moment is addictive."
He takes a sip of his now-cold coffee and adds quietly, "If I ever stop feeling that, I’ll stop teaching."
As the afternoon session begins, the room fills with the rhythmic snip of scissors and low hum of conversation. Fahad is everywhere at once - adjusting a light switch here, encouraging a delegate there, his enthusiasm as steady as his hand. Watching him, it’s easy to see why his courses are consistently praised for their warmth, rigour, and humility.
Before we wrap up, I ask him what he hopes delegates take away beyond technique. He smiles.
"Technique is important, yes. But what I really want is for them to leave remembering that surgery, at its core, is an act of compassion. Every cut, every stitch, every scar - it’s about healing. And teaching that... well, that’s surgery of the soul."
As the day ends, the last of the instruments are cleaned and packed away. The delegates linger to thank him, their faces lit with the quiet pride of achievement. Fahad nods, modest as ever.
"They did all the hard work," he says, but you can see the satisfaction in his eyes.
Driving away that evening, I think about what he said - about courage, curiosity, and teaching as service. In a world obsessed with metrics and modules, Professor Fahad Rizvi reminds us that real education still happens one heartbeat, one steady hand, one generous teacher at a time.
Author - Prof Fahad Rizvi