Of Brokers, Brides, and Teenage Rebellion

Of Brokers, Brides, and Teenage Rebellion

Clearing the Stage: A Tale of Unwanted Boarders

This essay is a humorous personal essay by Denzil Jayasinghe. The essay recounts the author’s experience living in a crowded Sri Lankan household with his parents, unmarried uncle Christie, and matchmaking Grandaunt Anna. The narrative centres on the constant stream of marriage brokers paraded before Christie, who has no desire to wed. The author humorously describes his awkward encounter with a broker and frustration with the living situation. Ultimately, the author’s rebellious act of claiming his uncle’s room leads to the departure of Christie, his mother, and Grandaunt Anna, to the quiet satisfaction of everyone remaining.

Christie, you see, was what one might call a “catch” in the local parlance. Tall, fair, English-speaking, and — most crucially — propertied, thanks to Grandfather Lewis’s generous disbursement of real estate. He was catnip to the marriage brokers, those peculiar creatures who roamed our island nation like umbrella-wielding cupids in sarongs and jackets.

These brokers would descend upon our home, armed with photographs of eligible brides and pedigrees that read like horse racing forms. Christie, however, remained steadfastly uninterested, leaving poor Anna to entertain these matrimonial merchants with the enthusiasm of a woman possessed.

One day, as I sauntered into our verandah, shirtless and blissfully unaware, I found myself the unwitting target of a broker’s desperate pitch. Suddenly, my skinny, seventeen-year-old frame was transformed into prime marital real estate. The broker, eyes gleaming with the promise of commission, began extolling my virtues to my bewildered mother.

“This golden boy,” he proclaimed, “has a great future! I have the perfect match — a convent-educated beauty with paddy fields aplenty!” Then, without missing a beat, he pivoted to critiquing my physique. “But look at those shoulder bones! He needs some flesh. Must be having wet dreams, eh?” He winked conspiratorially as if discussing the weather and not the nocturnal emissions of a mortified teenager.

Meanwhile, Anna continued her one-woman crusade to marry off Christie. She would station herself outside his room, regaling him with unsolicited bride reviews like a town crier announcing the day’s specials. Christie, for his part, perfected the art of selective deafness.

Years passed, and I, now a worldly nineteen-year-old, decided it was high time I claimed some territory in our crowded home. The front room, Christie’s weekend sanctuary, beckoned. After a brief and spectacularly unsuccessful negotiation with my uncle, I took matters into my own hands. With the help of five friends and the spirit of revolution, we staged a furniture coup d’état.

Christie’s reaction was, shall we say, less than cordial. He arrived, saw, and threw a tantrum of epic proportions. “You’re cursed!” he bellowed, apparently under the impression he was a Shakespearean villain. But the die was cast. Within hours, Christie had summoned a lorry and, in a fit of melodrama worthy of a Bollywood climax, absconded with his possessions, his ailing mother, and — in a surprising twist — Grandaunt Anna, who had packed her bags faster than you could say “marriage broker.”

And so, with one fell swoop of adolescent rebellion, I had managed to liberate our household from its unwanted borders. As for my parents, their silent approval spoke volumes. After all, in the grand theatre of family life, sometimes the most satisfying act is the one where the unnecessary props are finally cleared from the stage.

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