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Kishor and Riya were both Pasang and I went to the same school; we had just started seeing each other. We had grown up without any siblings, his mom felt like one child was already one too many and my Aama had suffered a terrible miscarriage before me, so in our late-night phone conversations we dreamed of making tons of babies. That winter, we had only learned to undress halfway and kiss with tongue.
Riya was an inch or two over four feet, and at seven months, she appeared stocky, not pregnant. Right before we got to the hotel, we would stop at a small shop and buy instant noodles, biscuits, juice packs, whatever cheap junk we could find. Pasang would spend all his pocket money on fuel for his motorbike, so I started swiping cash from Aama every morning before school.
But was I really stealing if I was acting out of compassion, trying to feed two homeless adults and an unborn child? The first time I met Riya and Kishor, I thought they were rock stars. Kishor wore a black leather jacket and had long wavy hair. He had deep dimples that made him look like a Nepali Jon Bon Jovi. When he spoke, he never looked me in the eye, but he had an incredible ability to make us feel like we were just gathering at his place for a dinner party.
The room had a thin maroon carpet that felt sticky to our bare feet. Parts of the carpet were balding, revealing a dark grey cement floor. The twin beds were pushed together to create one large bed in the corner of the room, and there was always a pillow propped upright, like a disembodied torso, leaning against the wall. The backs of the two single sofas faced the bed, creating a space that felt like a makeshift living room. Hungry from the day at school, Pasang and I would walk into the room with Wai-Wais, coconut biscuits and packets of Tang.
