Ice cream with Laloo Yadav

I am in Laloo Prasad Yadav's bungalow in an orderly, quiet neighbourhood not far away from the grime and stink of Patna. The capital of Bihar state, which Mr Yadav and his wife ruled for 15 years, is one of India's grubbiest cities. Bihar is one of India's poorest and most lawless states. Yet Mr Yadav has built up a formidable fan following as the country's most entertaining politician with his ready, rustic wit, an inimitable gift of the gab and an endearing swagger. In his latest avatar as the federal railway minister he is credited with turning around an ailing network. And he is a national player too, as a key ally of the ruling Congress party.

"Come, come," Mr Yadav greets us, as we pour into the driveway. "Too much heat here. I am taking rest. I have made special arrangements for you."

Despite the trappings of power, Mr Yadav remains a likeable, earthy man. He proudly shows off his mango trees and an aquarium ("Look! Fish, fish" he says excitedly). He tells me he has over 300 cows and he runs a dairy, from where the hotel I am staying in buys milk regularly.

We are led into a vast air-conditioned guest room stashed with crystal bric-a-brac, glasses, gold painted figurines, ornately framed pictures of deities and assorted kitsch. We settle down on the plush sofas, and Mr Yadav takes his seat in a plastic garden chair. Aides hover outside the room, and a smartly-dressed young boy, one of his nine children, keeps peeping. Some time into our conversation, Mr Yadav is joined by his wife, Rabri Devi, who has had a stint as the chief minister of the state when he was in prison on corruption charges.

It's been a hot and sticky campaign, Mr Yadav says. The heat was "unbearable".

"Every day I was doing 14 meetings hopping from place to place in the helicopter. I would get off the chopper smothered in dust, wipe the dust off my face, and then begin shouting slogans. It was tough. It must have been torture for the crowds too," he chuckles.

Mr Yadav, according to most people here, is facing tough competition from his rival, an efficient regional party politician and present chief minister of Bihar, Nitish Kumar. Mr Kumar has worked quietly over the past three years. People say he has brought some normality and order to his beleaguered state: he has cracked down on the soaring crime, securing over 30,000 convictions helped by fast track courts, and built some badly-need basic infrastructure like village roads and schools. By all accounts, Mr Yadav and his party - once reputed for stitching up an unbeatable vote bank of the lower castes and Muslims - could suffer serious reverses this time.

Mr Yadav begs to differ. In a moment of pure theatre, he begins reeling off the names of the constituencies he is sure his party will win - when we do the counting, we find that he is confident of securing nearly 80% of Bihar's 40 seats. People here tell me he'll be lucky to get half of them.

Bihar is a metaphor for India in many ways. What you see here is what you get. Its grinding poverty, unabashed caste politics, debilitating corruption, political gangsterism and lack of governance is on open display. Bihar doesn't care to treat or hide its wounds. Its long suffering people have come to terms with the pain.

Mr Yadav appears unfazed. "We will win, and the UPA government [the ruling Congress led coalition, of which Mr Yadav is a member] will rule again," he says. He appears confident that the Congress's estranged ally, the Communists, will end up supporting a Congress-led government to keep the Hindu nationalist BJP at bay.

We return to talk about his much-hyped role in transforming the slothful railways into a profitable enterprise. The Indian Railways is a behemoth without parallel: it employs 1.4 million people to operate its 14,000 trains running on a 62,000-km network.

Mr Yadav says he turned it around by cutting losses, boosting freight and increasing punctuality. For this feat, he is feted by management schools around the world. More discerning critics say that Mr Yadav has taken credit for work done by a team of efficient technocrats, and some of these reforms were set in motion by his predecessor - ironically the very same Nitish Kumar who now runs Bihar.

"Indian Railways," he says, "will alone defeat poverty in India. We have cut fares by 30% across all classes of travel and we are still making profits. It serves the rich and the poor."

But why did he turn out to be such an indifferent ruler of his own state? I ask.

Mr Yadav is unflappable. He says Bihar has inherent disadvantages: large parts of the land in the north are fallow; regular flooding by rivers that originate in neighbouring Nepal make matters worse. In feudal central Bihar, Maoism has taken root. The state also attracts next to no investment, and banks don't lend money easily here to start businesses.

"Bihar has to leap to catch up with the rest of India. It needs special care," he says.

It is time to leave. As Mr Yadav accompanies us to the car park inside the bungalow, he surprises us once more. An ice cream cart is waiting in the garden, and he orders a round for all us. He does not have one, because he is watching his weight. Do you have the cart permanently stationed in your house, I muse. "No, no," he says, with a mischievous grin. "I got the ice cream man from outside the zoological gardens for you people today."

There is no end of mirth in Mr Yadav's company. He lets us in on a secret before we leave. "A few nights ago I had a dream," he says, bursting into laughter. "I dreamt that I was getting married for the second time. My wife would be angry if she heard about it." If wit alone could help win elections, Mr Yadav would have ruled Bihar all his life.

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