Gunshot Piercing

Chill

Gunshot Piercing

It began, as all life-altering decisions do, with someone else’s fashion.

My younger cousin walked in wearing purple ear studs—confident, casual, as if he had always been this stylish creature. I looked at him. He looked at me. The studs looked back at me and whispered, “Upgrade pending…”

My wife sealed the matter in one line:
“You will look good.”

That was it. Proposal passed. No further discussion.

A few days later, we went to the jeweller’s shop to buy a chain for our daughter. A normal, respectable outing. But destiny had other plans… and a small device that makes a sound like a stapler with attitude.

My five-year-old grandson came along, purely for moral support—his own, not mine.

The jeweller inspected my ears like an archaeologist discovering ancient ruins.
“Ah! Old holes are there,” he declared, as if announcing hidden treasure.

My wife took charge. She marked the exact spot on my earlobes with the seriousness of a surgeon and the confidence of a school teacher correcting homework.

And then… the atmosphere changed.

My grandson sensed danger.

His eyes widened. His face tightened. His tiny brain connected all dots at lightning speed:

• There will be a “gun.”
• It will “shoot.”
• Target: Thatha.

He rushed to my side.

“Don’t do, Thatha!” he pleaded, holding my hand like I was about to be sent into battle.
“It will hurt you!”

A pause. Then his second concern emerged, even more personal:

“And… then they will do for me also!”

Ah. The real issue surfaces.

He tried logic next.

“Boys should not wear ear jewellery.”

Interesting. A five-year-old, suddenly a guardian of tradition.

But Thatha had crossed the point of no return. History was calling. Purple was calling. My wife was definitely calling.

“Ready,” I said.

The jeweller lifted the gun. My grandson closed his eyes.

Click!

A sharp, quick sting. Not exactly pleasant. Not exactly unbearable. Somewhere between a mosquito bite and a reminder that vanity has a price.

I maintained dignity.

My grandson opened one eye slowly, checking if I was still alive.

“Pain?” he asked.

“A little,” I admitted.

He shook his head in disappointment.
“I told you.”

And just like that, the operation was complete. Thatha 2.0 emerged—slightly shinier, slightly braver, and officially approved by fashion.

My grandson, however, kept a safe distance from the jeweller for the rest of the visit… just in case the “gun” developed new ideas.