Similarities

Drake, before plunging into water with his surfboard asked me, “Hey mom, do I resemble you or father?” Unsurprised by my son’s obvious question, it is natural inquisitiveness of any five years old to knowing his similarities with parents. I suddenly realise that the feeling is inexpressible to watch your child grow up resembling you and more thrilling when he/she resembles both the parents -- I feel thrilled because I don’t resemble my parents. His question left me clueless and suddenly reminded me how I constantly nagged my parents leaving them unanswered with such questions. I was adopted…I, therefore did not understand how do I answers to my son’s innocent question!

I was two year old when my parents adopted me from an orphanage in Russia. And it was not until I had the capacity to understand the cycle of birth and death, did they unravel the truth of my adoption. I thank my parents to have brought me away from that abysmal dwelling, which kept me undernourished – they (mom and dad) made me plump after taking me home. Obviously, being a Russian, my hair was blonde yellow, my eyes were blue and my face was round and high cheek. My parents were both brunette with hazel and bigger eyes but not blue and long straight nose; my appearance nowhere resembled them. I still remember, as a six year old when I first time questioned about my origin, disturbed my mom enormously. Both some how brought me into confidence that I resembled dad and always treated me as their own baby to never let the fact of adoption come in discussion. But it was me who in spite of constant verification of belonging to them, every third day I would come up with the same doubt. I desperately wanted to match myself with them. “Why don’t I resemble you both, whereas all my friends do match with their parents”, I once wept saying this line. The day, when I was finally informed that I hail from the Ural Mountains, I could not but stop crying at the generosity (they were generous to bring me with them) of my parents. But who were my biological parents? This was the unquenchable quest for which I travelled all the way to the dingy Russian orphan house. My search was all in vain. But today, if I find them, I would never go back, after all I was abandoned only to be away from them.

My son calls out to me, “Mom, look, with my wet hair, I am really looking like you. Isn’t it?” I kiss his forehead, “of course you are like me son, and afterall you are ‘my’ child.” I thank him having answered his query all by himself. Now I feel relaxed knowing there is someone who resembles me, has blue eyes, blonde hair and is chubby cheeked!