At first glance, Dingraha’s home is not-so-strikingly different from what most would imagine. Colorful tile mosaic floors of UN Diplomats in every room, no shelves or cabinets, and not a book in sight. Instead, there are two mammoth-legged, red velvet upholstered chairs and matching end tables in each room, each table with an Amazon Kindle Fire turned initially to the same scathing page of a German man’s biography. That is, unless you cared to check the original Barnes & Noble NOOK in his bedroom, its sole content a night-time nautical navigational chart that’s long-since burned its inverse into the screen.

The wallpaper in each room is pinned polaroids, floor to ceiling. “One for every pretty girl in France,” he says.

We pass through the “Sprinkler Room”. Firehose nozzles crisscross each other, held aloft by hollow, rusted cherubs made of wrought iron bands, leaving me with a distinct feeling of penance and self-flagellation. I decline his offer of a demonstration.

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