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The resting mother

In a quiet motel room, a middle-aged South Indian woman lay resting, her dark skin glistening under the dim night light. Her traditional sari hung loosely around her, the fabric swishing softly as she shifted slightly. The mattress creaked beneath her weight as she turned restlessly, one hand draping over her chest where her large, saggy breasts strained against the fabric of the sari. Her other hand rested beside her head, fingers brushing against the cheap polyester of the pillowcase. The air was thick with the scent of mothballs and stale smoke, and she sighed deeply, her eyes shut tightly, her face etched with weariness.