Frankly Speaking by Frank Crocitto

They Also Serve

His name was Raj. And he was one of many. And had things gone smoothly I might never have met him, nor had the good fortune of being touched by the fineness of his character. Raj was his name, he said, and when pressed, he explained with a sly smile, that he’d shortened it because there were no more rajahs in India. Yet long before we parted, I realized—and told him so—that he was more than a raj and more than a rajah—he was a maharajah.

The first night on board was unnerving. Everything was new, everything had to be explored, and despite the calm waters and the immensity of the ship, a slow, persistent rocking affected our every step. The floating marshmallow had been built at a cost of 400 million dollars. That much money at the disposal of an Italian designer was bound to produce a “Coney Island on the High Seas”—all glitter and gleam, gold-flecked marble, gilded scrollwork, flashing lights and ornate balustrades, glass-bubble elevators, pools, Jacuzzis and bright-colored glass walls reminiscent of the jukeboxes of the ‘50s. They had named it the Costa Atlantica, but it should have been called the Cosa Ostentatia.

The ship contained everything necessary for cruising the warm aquamarine of the Caribbean under a full moon in February. Food was served from 6:15 in the morning to midnight. Drink, except for water, was available around the clock at each of the 13 bars. There was a casino where wheels and blackjack and one-armed bandits turned smiles to frowns. There was a street—yeah, a street—lined with shops where shoppers could save on liquor and gold and tropical necessities. And there were swimming pools and three lukewarm tubs, and a spa with a real hot tub, and weights to lift and treadmills to tread, where massages, with and without seaweed, were offered. There was a jogging track and stages with electronic pianos and steel drums, and state-of-the-art sound systems to amplify singers who scream and coaches who bark aerobic commands at the aged, the infirm and the overweight. And there was a thousand-seat “teatro” where movies flickered and where vaudeville tap-danced back to life. While down the halls and through the lounges—day and night—floated long, languid clouds of tobacco smoke.

Attending the 2,300 passengers were 900 crewmembers. To this group belonged Raj. Like the passengers, the crew was multi-national and communication was multi-lingual, so much so that one marveled at the variety of ways one could be misunderstood. Some spoke English, and among these was Raj, who spoke the King’s English with that captivating trill that has helped Rajneesh, the Maharishi, Deepak Chopra, and to a lesser extent Mahatma Gandhi, rise to such notoriety in the West.

Raj came from Bombay; that’s where his family lives, his wife and two boys. He sees them for a month after each eight-month stint at sea. I pulled these few facts out of him over the course of six days on the ocean. He has a deep reserve and a reluctance to burden anyone with the details of his life.

Had my wife and I kept to our assigned table in the dining hall we would have missed him: Table 39 was a large, round table set for eight. We were the only two at it that desolate first night. To make matters worse, the table was directly over some great thumping engine that kept our digestive organs trembling and fluttering throughout the meal. The following evening I cast my eyes about for another table. A few yards away in a cozy spot out of the traffic flow and hopefully far from the engine thump was an unoccupied table for two.

We sat down with finality, and waited anxiously as the dining room filled, hoping we wouldn’t be asked to move. My wife and I kept our eyebeams intertwined, believing couples in love are less likely to be disturbed. Waiters appeared to take orders. Edwin, our waiter of the previous night, passed and looked at us forlornly. But I smiled and winked and then he smiled. No one sat at Table 39 that night nor on any other night. We waited.

Then our waiter appeared. He was dark-skinned with a moustache and thick black hair tinged with strands of elegant gray. He donned his spectacles with care and in warm, inviting tones asked what we would like on that moonlit evening. His pen was poised and upon receiving our choices he wrote them on his clipboard with the solemnity of an angel entering names in the Book of Life. Clearly he perceived great wisdom in the choices we made. He thanked us, wafted the menus out of our hands and evaporated. Raj.
As the days slouched slowly by, amidst the aimless bustle and empty splendor, the figure of Raj grew in importance. There was a solidity about the man, an authenticity. He seemed free of moods. He always greeted us cordially, as if he had been waiting for us so he could begin to live. His cordiality came from his heart and it encircled us as we ate. We looked forward to meals because they were superbly prepared, but more so because Raj would serve them.

Unlike many another waiter I’ve known, he had no wish to make his mark on the proceedings. He was there to enhance our experience. And not just us; everyone felt he was treating them with especial care. His respect was irrespective of persons. I’ve known waiters who saw those at table to be a problem, an inconvenience, an annoyance, a threat, a blight, the enemy, objects of scorn, targets for abuse, an imposition. Not Raj. He seemed ready to go to the ends of the earth for whatever we wished. Because of that we were reluctant to trouble him. There was no “How’s everything, guys?” though we knew he was taking note of our pleasure, or lack of it. Under his care we became royalty engaged at a sacred event.
I watched him. A stocky man, of average height, moving with modest grace, gliding from table to table, weaving his way without disturbing the air. He anticipated each person’s needs. When he placed something on the table—a dish, a bottle, a fork—it was without flourish, without sound. It was as if he had already left before he had set it down. Sometimes I didn’t see him, he was so invisible. His service had the quality and wonder of magic.

The unity between us was there from the start. It deepened with the days. Our pleasure was his pleasure; our disappointment was his, too. Once, because there were too many smokers in the vicinity of our usual table, my wife and I navigated across the vast dining room to the far side where the morning sun was streaming in. The waiter there was dull and slow. Then, magically, Raj appeared, inquiring quietly if we had all we needed. I told him the service was not anywhere near his. He protested respectfully, “Oh, no, no, don’t say that. This waiter you have is the man who trained me.”

Among his innumerable virtues were these: Though obviously a man of sensitivity and culture, he never imposed himself; he was always impeccably dressed and groomed; he removed dishes with the same care and elegance with which he brought them; he never fawned, was never obsequious. If I made a joke he would laugh, genuinely, but not too much.

One time, flooded with gratitude for all that he ha d done and the way he had done it, I told him that he treated us far too well. His response was: “How can you say that, sir? You are the most important person here.” Taken aback by the seeming flattery I looked at him for a long moment, and I saw he meant it. He felt that way toward everyone.

Before we docked, the Cosa Ostentatia begged us to fill out a comment form. One of the questions was would I want to go on another cruise. I answered that I would, but only if I could be assured that Raj Bhogagi would be my waiter.

Namaste, Maha Rajah!