Space outside one’s house has become more important these days both from the point of view of the builder’s business and owner’s utility. In the olden days, some spacious buildings had huge balconies proclaiming the affluence of inmates. As structures grew taller and taller, balconies began to shrink and got covered to strengthen security when you lock the place and are away.
But the extension itself has metamorphosed into “sit-out”—a name that appears to have been aptly chosen, for instance, to park the oldies. Elders also prefer the allotment as they find peace they cannot hope for inside. Given the choice and resources, we will insist on many sit-outs, finding a different use for each one before moving into a new place. At least one of them becomes a godown or lumber room. It is very convenient for the housewife to keep the washing machine and operate it there. A tap or washbasin makes a great difference. That is the place for clotheslines. In an uncovered sit-out, clothes are just hung and reach the people living below which becomes a bone of contention.
Some are forced to move into another apartment just because a sit-out is available. Once shifted, all unwanted junk are piled up. We let them rest for years before taking them to another place. In an attempt to buy peace with my better half, I agreed to a higher rent just because we will get two sit-outs for the two bedrooms. Our building was perilously close to the one opposite to us and I was always afraid of peeping Toms/bird watchers appearing there. I repeatedly imagined the possibility of intrusion from or through the neighbour’s sit-out. His recklessly confrontational looks aroused suspicion.
A little later, the sit-out became a room for worship and meditation and in the afternoon, a room to use the mobile or cordless phone.
Visitors’ kids thought it was a playground or hiding place and my only concern was that someone could tumble onto the road by stretching out. The owner could not get it grille-framed as his builder threatened to charge extra if the place was covered. Like covered car parks, covered sit-outs fetch a premium. When it is open to the sky, it is called a service verandah.
An emergency search was made for a man to secure the sit-out at our expense as our owner was indifferent. Highlighting the fragile security aspect, my wife nudged me to seal the sit-out forever. I complied with sheepishly. Days later, I was told it would be my reading room. (That I was evicted from the bedroom as one of my children got married recently is a different story). The sit-out was not just a place where I spent the evening; it was an all-time observation post to see what the speeding cartmen had to sell. I could use the vantage point to stop them till my lady reached with her bag and purse. When there was excessive sunlight in summer, the grille needed a curtain. The room got darker and I began a crusade against a sit-out. My partner agreed because she’d realised how familiarity breeds contempt and eats into privacy. I mean her relationship with the woman next door had soured.