We caught the subway north to Washington Heights and talked about how he had taken the job as a temporary measure when Meena first got pregnant, and how when the children were school age he was going to start looking around for something else, something with office hours, so that he could help out more. (‘But the health benefits are good. Makes it hard to leave.’) They had met at college – I was ashamed to admit I had assumed they were an arranged marriage.

When I’d told her, Meena had exploded into laughter. Girl? You think I wouldn’t have made my parents pick me better than him?

Ashok: You didn’t say that last night, baby.

Meena: That’s because I was focused on the TV.

When we finally laughed our way up the subway steps at 163rd Street I was suddenly in a very different New York.

The buildings in this part of Washington Heights looked exhausted: boarded-up shop fronts with sagging fire escapes, liquor shops, fried-chicken shops, and beauty salons with curled and faded pictures of outdated hairstyles in the windows. A softly cursing man walked past us, pushing a shopping trolley full of plastic bags. Groups of kids slouched on corners, catcalling to each other, and the kerb was punctuated by refuse bags that lay stacked in unruly heaps, or vomited their contents onto the road. There was none of the gloss of Lower Manhattan, none of the purposeful aspiration that was shot through the very air of Midtown. The atmosphere here was scented with fried food and disillusionment.

Meena and Ashok appeared not to notice. They strode along, their heads bent together, checking phones to make sure Meena’s mother wasn’t having problems with the kids. Meena turned to see if I was with them and smiled. I glanced behind me, tucked my wallet deeper inside my jacket, and hurried after them.

We heard the protest before we saw it, a vibration in the air that gradually became distinct, a distant chant. We rounded a corner and there, in front of a sooty red-brick building, stood around a hundred and fifty people, waving placards and chanting, their voices mostly aimed towards a small camera crew. As we approached, Meena thrust her sign into the air. ‘Education for all!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t take away our kids’ safe spaces!’ We pierced the crowd and were swiftly swallowed by it. I had thought New York was diverse, but now I realized all I had seen was the colour of people’s skin, the styles of their clothes. Here was a very different range of people. There were old women in knitted caps, hipsters with babies strapped to their backs, young black men with their hair neatly braided, and elderly Indian women in saris. People were animated, joined in a common purpose, and utterly, communally intent on getting their point across. I joined in with the chanting, seeing Meena’s beaming smile, the way she hugged fellow protesters as she moved through the crowd.

‘They said it’ll be on the evening news.’ An elderly woman turned to me, nodding with satisfaction. ‘That’s the only thing the city council takes any notice of. They all wanna be on the news.’

I smiled.

‘Every year it’s the same, right? Every year we have to fight a little harder to keep the community together. Every year we have to hold tighter to what’s ours.’

‘I – I’m sorry. I don’t really know. I’m just here with friends.’

‘But you came to help us. That’s what matters.’ She placed a hand on my arm. ‘You know my grandson does a mentoring programme here? They pay him to teach other young folk the computers. They actually pay him. He teaches adults too. He helps them apply for jobs.’ She clapped her gloved hands together, trying to keep warm. ‘If the council close it, all those people will have nowhere to go. And you can bet the city councillors will be the first people complaining about the young folk hanging around on street corners. You know it.’ She smiled at me as if I did.

Ahead, Meena was holding up her sign again. Ashok, beside her, stooped to greet a friend’s small boy, picking him up and lifting him above the crowd so that he could see better. He looked completely different in this crowd without his doorman outfit. For all we talked, I had only really seen him through the prism of his uniform. I hadn’t wondered about his life beyond the lobby desk, how he supported his family or how long he travelled to work or what he was paid. I surveyed the crowd, which had grown a little quieter once the camera crew departed, and felt oddly ashamed at how little I had really explored New York. This was as much the city as the glossy towers of Midtown.

We kept up our chant for another hour. Cars and trucks beeped in support as they passed and we would cheer in return. Two librarians came out and offered trays of hot drinks to as many as they could. I didn’t take one. By then I had noticed the ripped seams on the old lady’s coat, the threadbare, well-worn quality of the clothes around me. An Indian woman and her son walked across the road with large foil trays of hot pakoras and we dived on them, thanking her profusely. ‘You are doing important work,’ she said. ‘We thank you.’ My pakora was full of peas and potato, spicy enough to make me gasp and absolutely delicious. ‘They bring those out to us every week, God bless them,’ said the old lady, brushing pastry crumbs from her scarf.

A squad car crawled by two, three times, the officer’s face blank as he scanned the crowd. ‘Help us save our library, sir!’ Meena yelled at him. He turned his face away but his colleague smiled.

At one point Meena and I went inside to use the loos and I got a chance to see what I was apparently fighting for. The building was old, with high ceilings, visible pipework and a hushed air; the walls were covered with posters offering adult education, meditation sessions, help with CVs and payment of six dollars per hour for mentoring classes. But it was full of people, the children’s area thick with young families, the computer section humming with adults clicking carefully on keyboards, not yet confident in what they were doing. A handful of teenagers sat chatting quietly in a corner, some reading books, several wearing earphones. I was surprised to see two security guards standing by the librarians’ desk.

‘Yeah. We get a few fights. It’s free to anyone, you know?’ whispered Meena. ‘Drugs usually. You’re always gonna get some trouble.’ We passed an old woman as we headed back down the stairs. Her hat was filthy, her blue nylon coat creased and street-worn, with rips in the shoulders, like epaulettes. I found myself staring after her as she levered her way up, step by step, her battered slippers barely staying on her feet, clutching a bag from which one solitary paperback poked out.

We stayed outside for another hour – long enough for a reporter and another news crew to stop by, asking questions, promising they would do their best to get the story to run. And then, at one, the crowd started to disperse. Meena, Ashok and I headed back to the subway, the two of them chatting animatedly about whom they had spoken to and the protests planned for the following week.

‘What will you do if it does close?’ I asked them, when we were on the train.

‘Honestly?’ said Meena, pushing her bandanna back on her hair. ‘No idea. But they’ll probably close it in the end. There’s another, better-equipped, building two miles away and they’ll say we can take our children there. Because obviously everyone round here has a car. And it’s good for the old people to walk two miles in the ninety-degree heat.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘But we keep fighting till then, right?’

‘You gotta have your places for community.’ Ashok raised a hand emphatically, slicing the air. ‘You gotta have places where people can meet and talk and exchange ideas and it not just be about money, you know? Books are what teach you about life. Books teach you empathy. But you can’t buy books if you barely got enough to make rent. So that library is a vital resource! You shut a library, Louisa, you don’t just shut down a building, you shut down hope.’