Manu rushed through the John F. Kennedy International Airport, hoping to reach the college as soon as possible. He had refused the pick-up offer from the Indian Student Association, thinking he’d take a bus. But, outside the airport, New York overwhelmed him, so he asked a middle-aged American about the Bridgeport shuttle. ‘You know what,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you.’ Manu didn’t get him. The man asked whether Manu wanted to use the restroom. He did; it was a long flight. Did he want to drink water, eat something? No, thank you. He picked up Manu’s suitcases and loaded them in the trunk. Crap, a cab driver! Manu couldn’t say no. His first conversation in the US cost him $350.
The cab settled on the I-95. In less than two hours, it’d reach Bridgeport, a booming industrial town a long time ago, but now struggling with crime and poverty. Its university, too, had experienced a simultaneous decline. It had 9,100 students in 1970; by 1992, it dipped to 1,300. College buildings languished empty. Bars, restaurants and stores had shut shop. Illegal drugs ruled the local economy. In 1990, the university announced an end to its liberal arts programmes, severed links with the law school, fired around fifty tenured faculty and ordered the rest to take a pay cut of 30 per cent. This caused a two-year strike—the longest in the history of American higher education—driving away thousands of students. The ones on campus, fearing gunshots and mugging, considered it ‘depressing’ and ‘dead’.
