In the second part of her report from a location trip in eastern Nepal, senior producer Fiona Ledger and the team visit a blind school whose students are dedicated followers of the BBC World Service Trust drama Sweet Tales of the Sarangi, encounter transport strikes and local ethnic leaders, and interview journalists about rising tensions in the region. Read part one here.

By Fiona Ledger

Monday

We leave Itahari, despite the bandh (a type of transport strike and protest), and head for Birtamod in the far east where we interview a Limbu leader. He wants the east to be declared an independent state, Limbuwhan, with devolved powers and is angry with the government for reneging on a promise to set up a commission dedicated to Limbu autonomy.

We ask him about the stories we’ve heard of Limbu taxation (enforced through roadblocks). He says it’s voluntary – but we’ve heard it’s extracted with menace. He stoutly denies this. What is he doing with the money? He shrugs, ‘putting it aside’ he says.

What are his plans? To form a parallel government if the Limbu demand for a semi-autonomous status isn’t granted. But surely these are issues for the Constituent Assembly to deal with over the next year? ‘The government broke it’s promise,’ he replies grimly.

We move on to Dharan in the foothills of the Himalayas, to visit a blind school where the drama has a dedicated following amongst the pupils. We set ourselves up under the shade of a large tree and Prakash Gandharba – the main actor and narrator of our drama, – gets out his Sarangi ( a four stringed instrument played with a horsehair bow).

A teacher brings a group of boys over aged around 12-16. As they draw near they recognise the tune Prakash is playing and realise who he is “Dilu bhai, dilu bhai” (Dilu brother) they call out, addressing Prakash by the name of his character. They gently feel his face, his Sarangi and his hands. One of the boys starts to imitate the other characters in the drama: gruff old Baje, the nagging father Ramcharan, and the put-upon son Sukindar. He asks Prakash to act out a scene; Prakash obliges and the boys are delighted.

Prakash plays them a tune he has composed with deputy editor Kedar Sharma in the jeep on the way to the school. It’s about being blind and seeing the world through your hands; by verse two they’ve picked up the chorus and are singing along. It’s a moving moment.

Tuesday

We have wound our way up into the hills and reach the central square of the town of Ilam. It’s sunny but hazy – typical for the region. The houses are like Swiss chalets, with wooden fretwork and balconies running their length. There’s a commercial buzz but we are surrounded by tea gardens.

In the evening we meet a group of journalists to talk about politics and the constitution which is slowly being prepared: a mixture of Rai, Limbu and Brahmin.

Despite growing tensions between Rai and Limbu, the group is relaxed in each others company. They all believe the eastern region is special and could benefit from the devolution of power which would come with a federal system. The president of the Ilam branch of the Federation of Nepali Journalists is among them – a thoughtful Limbu who withdrew from politics because he found it divisive. He has a theory about the growing tension: it’s not about deprivation – so often tinder for political discontent – it’s actually more about a new and growing affluence. This has increased people’s aspirations and expectations, in turn stoking up their frustrations. “Even we journalists cannot predict what will happen,” adds a freelance Brahmin journalist.

Wednesday

Another hazy day in a small town just outside Ilam, and we are sitting in the beautiful wooden house of a charismatic and powerful woman advocate, Tika Poudel Bhardwaj. Before she can talk to us she graciously goes off to make traditional tea. Her husband is a reader in geography at the local university. His brother was kidnapped by Limbu activists while manning a polling booth last April. It took five days to find out who took him. Thankfully he was released ten days later, unharmed.

Tika returns, carefully assigning us our tea, and settles down to tell us about her work. Her husband looks on affectionately, admiringly. Women are powerful here she says, especially in trade and commerce. She is a community leader, and constantly busy in court; domestic violence and trafficking of women are high on the agenda. Divorces are not uncommon; there a number of cases where husbands want to cut ties with no alimony, citing the woman’s infidelity. DNA tests on children are often requested.

We turn to the subject of politics and freedom of speech. Recently a woman journalist was threatened with abduction for speaking out against Limbu taxation. A visiting women’s human rights group from Kathmandu felt so disturbed by this that they didn’t feel safe on their own and asked to say with Tika.

In the evening we meet another group of journalists in the town of Panchthar, again a mixture of Rai and Limbu. It’s bigger than our previous meeting and the mood is less relaxed. One journalist – a Limbu – solemnly says Rai and Limbu can never be real friends; superficially, yes, but not in their hearts. It’s more of a warning than a statement of fact. Nobody else in the groups backs him up, but neither do they confront him directly. It takes two young women – one Rai and one Limbu – to indirectly disprove his pronouncement. They say they are the best friends. They’ve even invented a joint name for themselves. But as the discussion unfolds about the political ambitions of the Limbu, and the pressure on journalists not to report instances of bullying and extortion, the young women silently start to weep.