The Ferry at New York Harbor

The Ferry at New York Harbor

BY:Khan

Balqis Riyaz stood at the seashore of New York, where ferries waited to carry passengers to the Statue of Liberty. But to board one of those ferries, a ticket was necessary. Since it was the weekend, crowds had gathered, and the ferries were packed with eager visitors. Long queues stretched across the harbor, filled with people waiting for the second or third ferry under the glaring sun.

Men, women, and children clutched burgers, Coca-Cola cans, juice packs, and movie cameras. The crowd was not limited to the young; many elderly people stood patiently as well, their faces glistening with sweat. To entertain those waiting, a black street performer amused the crowd with his tricks. Music played from his speakers, and he danced, performed, and made people laugh. While doing so, he collected a few coins and bills from the onlookers, but he never forced anyone to give. Contribution was entirely voluntary, and yet most people willingly rewarded him.

The harbor was alive with the sights and sounds of boats, ferries, and ships anchored by the shore. In the distance, the Statue of Liberty rose proudly above the horizon. Across the water, women could be seen strolling along the opposite bank. Behind it all stood the magnificent skyscrapers of Downtown Manhattan, cutting the skyline with their steel and glass.

Small stalls had been set up along the lines, selling photographs and postcards of the Statue of Liberty and other American landmarks. Nearby benches were filled with people waiting for their chance to join the long ticket line. The sun was fierce, but the sea breeze brought occasional relief. Still, the weather seemed unbearable for many of the Americans. Their faces had turned red, and both men and women dressed in tank tops and shorts to beat the heat. To Balqis, the weather felt like an April afternoon back home, but she thought to herself with a smile: What if these people visited Pakistan in June or July, standing outdoors at noon? How would they survive the real heat then?

Leaving the crowd behind, she moved toward an empty bench. As she sat there observing the lively scene, her eyes fell on an elderly man nearby. He was dressed neatly in trousers, a clean shirt, and even a tie. With the music playing, he was dancing slowly, struggling to move his frail legs to the beat. Out of curiosity, Balqis stepped closer and realized he was a beggar.

On a small table beside him was a box where passersby dropped coins as they moved toward the ticket counters. Though he was begging, he did not plead with words, nor did he chase after people. Instead, he danced tirelessly, entertaining them, and left the decision to their generosity. He was a dignified beggar—one who respected himself enough to give something in return, even if it was only a weak dance step or a smile.

This sight stirred something deep within Balqis. She compared it to what she often saw in her own country. There, strong and healthy men preferred to beg rather than work. Women carried infants in their arms, calling out loudly: “Give in the name of Allah, so your children remain safe. May your husband live long, may your wife go to Hajj.” If people ignored them, their pleas turned into curses. Out of fear, many gave them something just to silence their tongues. If someone suggested they work, endless excuses followed: “How can I work with such a small baby? My husband is blind, who will cook for him?”

In America, even begging seemed to demand effort, creativity, and dignity. Here, the old man used music, movement, and persistence to earn what little he could. Back home, begging was too often reduced to manipulation. This difference weighed heavily on her mind.

Balqis turned her eyes once again toward the ferry. The long line still stretched far back, and people had clearly been waiting for hours. Yet there was no sign of irritation. Instead, there was excitement, energy, and an eagerness to live in the moment. Children giggled while licking ice cream cones, couples pointed out the skyline to each other, and families posed for quick photos. Even in waiting, people created memories.

It struck her how these Americans seemed to live without anxiety for tomorrow. They did not worry about years down the road. Their focus was on the present—on savoring this day, this journey, and this simple adventure of boarding a ferry to the Statue of Liberty.

The air was filled with a blend of salty sea breeze, the aroma of snacks from food carts, and the background beat of the street performer’s music. It was as if the harbor itself had become a stage, where every individual was both an actor and an audience member. From the long queues to the tired benches, from the colorful postcards to the faint laughter in the breeze, every detail carried the charm of being alive in that very moment.

As the ferry finally prepared to take on more passengers, the line began to move. The crowd stepped forward with anticipation, faces bright with joy and curiosity. For them, this was not simply a boat ride—it was a celebration of life, of togetherness, of being present.

Balqis remained on her bench, quietly observing. She realized that the essence of happiness was not only in reaching destinations but also in cherishing the small steps along the way. Here at New York Harbor, among strangers and performers, under the blazing sun and the gentle sea breeze, she had witnessed life in its rawest form—immediate, unburdened, and beautifully alive.