The Marriage Broker

A stubborn bachelor, a desperate aunt, and a weary marriage broker clash over tradition, duty, and the weight of unmet expectations.

4 min read

The marriage broker arrived at 248 Mudiyansegewatta with the weary precision of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating the delicate choreography of his trade. His age was etched not just in the wrinkles of his face or the grey balding hair but in the frayed hem of his sarong, the faded brown jacket that had long surrendered its original hue, and the umbrella – black, bent, and battle-worn – propped like an old comrade. His teeth bore the deep crimson stains of a lifelong betel habit; his shirt, the yellowed tinge of neglect.

He did not rush. Instead, he lingered beneath the fruit tree in the yard, a silent observer in the dappled shade, as though assessing the household’s worth not in rupees or property but in the quiet, unspoken currency of respectability. Only when the ritual of patience had been properly observed did he ascend the verandah steps, settling into the largest armchair with the ease of a man who had brokered more futures than he cared to recall?

Grand Aunt Anna received him with the practised grace of a woman who knew exactly what she had to offer. “I’ve heard of your proposals for my nephew,” she said, her voice syrup-sweet but threaded with steel. “Naturally, I’d like to know more about these brides.” A pause – just enough to let the implication settle between them. “John Christie is Lewis Jayawardane’s son, after all. A graduate. Land holdings. You understand – he is what one calls a prized catch.”

The broker nodded, his face a mask of polite interest. Behind his stained smile, the calculations began – the invisible arithmetic of dowries, status, the unspoken ledger of give-and-take that had governed such transactions for generations.

All the while, the prized catch himself remained barricaded in his room, the door shut tight as a miser’s fist. Outside, the murmur of negotiation hummed like a distant engine – Aunt Anna’s voice honeyed with purpose, the broker’s replies smooth, practised. Now and then, her speech rose, sharp and deliberate, a sound meant to pierce walls, to summon. But Christie did not stir.

Anna’s fingers tightened around the starched edge of her blouse, the fabric stiff with decades of pride. Childless herself and no grandchildren to boast she had poured every hope into this nephew – her deceased brother’s son, yes, but in her heart, hers. Had she not stitched his school uniforms, pressed his shirts, bragged to the retired teachers and gossiping aunties about his degree? And now, at the very moment, she sought to secure his future (and if God willed, her own comfort in old age), he refused even to show his face.

“He must be dressing,” she lied to the broker, her smile brittle as old porcelain. “He is very particular about appearances.”

The broker sipped his tea, wise to the performance. He had seen it all before – reluctant grooms, desperate mothers and aunts. Behind his betel-stained grin, he wondered if Christie was shy, proud, or wiser than the rest.

In the room: The Unmovable

Locked up in his room, Christie lay on his bed, tracing the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. They branched like veins, like family trees, each leading back to Lewis Jayawardane’s name, to Anna’s suffocating expectations. The broker’s brides would come with their ledgers – dowries, duties, the unspoken arithmetic of respectability. He pressed his palms to his ears, but the future kept knocking, insistent as Anna’s voice next door.

Denzil – Christie’s nephew, his sister’s boy – drifted onto the verandah like a shadow uncertain of its place in the light. At sixteen, he was all sharp angles and hollows, his ribs pressing against his skin like the bars of a cage he hadn’t yet learned to rattle. He hovered at the edge of the conversation, unnoticed for a moment – just another young lad in a household where young men were both promise and burden. The broker’s gaze slid over him and dismissed him. There are no prospects here, no dowry to negotiate. But Anna’s eyes softened. Denzil was family – another thread in the unravelling tapestry she was determined to mend.

“Bring tea,” she murmured, not unkindly, and the boy slipped back into the house, relieved to escape.

The Window’s Bargain

Then, a voice from inside: “Come to my window.”

The broker, startled, set aside his tea and shuffled to the front window. John Christie remained inside, half-hidden in shadow. The broker began his practised recitation: “I have this girl – a graduate, a teacher in a government school. Twenty-five, fair. Good family. Father is a teacher, two brothers – one in government service, the other at Walkers. A perfect fit.” He thrust a photograph through the windowpane.

Christie did not look at it. He had no intention of marrying, no desire to be part of this transaction. But he pitied the broker – this old man, clinging to the window frame, his feet barely touching the ground.

From the garden, Denzil watched the spectacle: the marriage broker clinging to the window’s metal grill, Christie a shadow behind the curtain, the old man’s voice weaving promises into the humid air. The photographs of brides – glossy, retouched, airbrushed and hopeful – were slid beneath the curtain like offerings to a disinterested god. Then, the flicker of movement: Christie’s thick fingers extending a ten-rupee note, the broker’s quick palm swallowing it whole. Denzil exhaled. Another ritual performed, another future deferred.

And the broker, though his pockets were a little heavier, left 248 Mudiyansegewatta with the same weary precision, his bent umbrella tapping the dust, his ledger of futures one entry shorter than before.