Split Open For the new nabobs of Delhi, the sign of arrival is not - contrary to popular belief - the BMW. Luxury cars, anybody will tell you, are a dime a dozen. But those who have really arrived are the lucky few with a vanity telephone number. Ajaysinhji Daulatsinhji Jadeja's many telephone numbers at his Uday Park and Greater Kailash homes are full of those triple 2s and triple 3s that speak of political clout. It's another matter that the phones never lead to Jadeja. A bevy of polite voices - from brother's office staff and his own domestic workers to unidentified sopranos - tell you that Jadeja is not at home. And no, no one knows when he will be back. Clout - political, social and economic - is something that Jadeja is not unfamiliar with. Jadeja's ancestors were the erstwhile rulers of Jamnagar. His father was an extremely affluent Congress MP. Jadeja, for all those who came in late, is also engaged to Samata Party president Jaya Jaitly's daughter. And Jaitly, for those who came in later still, is a close associate of Defence minister George Fernandes. Not surprisingly, everybody was pretty much convinced that the Indian cricketing board, the BCCI, would, finally, acquit Jadeja. Hushed whispers hinted that political pressure was being put on the board to get the 29-year-old former India captain off the hook. Jadeja himself spoke at length about his innocence. When co-accused Azharuddin loped off to quietly lick his wounds in some dark corner, Jadeja stood in the centre of town, picking holes in the CBI argument. He protested so often and so loudly that even now, days after the board banned him from playing cricket for five years, there are some who tend to believe him. 'Just let the boy be,' says former Indian captain Bishen Singh Bedi. Jadeja has his share of friends. Extremely articulate and charming, he is not just a veritable lady-killer but is popular with the men as well. Mast hai is the phrase most often used by friends describing him. So mast that even Madhuri Dixit was keen to act in a film with him. 'Her P.A. was in touch with Ajay for a while. But Ajay finally decided to focus on cricket instead,'' says a friend. But while always 'a regular guy,' Jadeja's friends admit that the half-Malayali-half-Gujarati lad has had an eye on the main chance from the beginning. 'He has been, right from the start, money-minded,' says a fellow-cricketer, who watched him grow up in the lanes of Pandara Park. 'Every time he was asked to play a match in a club, he would first ask how much he was going to make,' he says. Money, in fact, has been the leitmotif in the right-hand batsman's eventful life. When he was studying at the Sardar Patel Vidyalaya - once the Capital's leading liberal school - he often told his friends that he was on the payrolls of Escorts, who paid him to play cricket. No wonder Jadeja had a huge fan following in school. His then principal, NCW chairperson Vibha Parthasarathi, attributes his popularity to his warm and friendly nature. She tells a story to stress her point. Once, after the death of a popular teacher who was a sports lover as well, Jadeja went up to her, urging that something be done to keep the memory of M.L. Sharma, alive. 'We all forgot about it. But then, on our annual day, Ajay suddenly came to me with a cheque in hand. 'Ma'am, this is for the M.L. Sharma scholarship for the best cricketer in school.' We had all wanted to do something about Sharmaji, but hadn't got around to it. And here was this 18-year-old boy standing in front of me, with a cheque in his hand and tears in his eyes,' remembers Parthasarathi. Jadeja, the former principal holds, always had leadership qualities. The students, in fact, were so fond of him that a whole gaggle of class-mates would tutor him before his examinations, helping him out with their notes and lists of questions. 'One day I was walking down the corridors two hours after school had closed. I heard noises from a room, and went there to find a whole group of students sitting with Jadeja and coaching him,'' she says. But that was when Jadeja still had stars in his eyes. Some years down the line - several endorsements, much money and a great many lost matches later - the feeling of camaraderie that Jadeja once evoked had petered out considerably. Former team manager Sunil Dev recalls an incident in Zimbabwe. During a tour of South Africa, Jadeja had twice misplaced his tie. And then, when the team was about to leave Harare for Mumbai, Jadeja walked into the bus that was taking them to the airport without his blazer. 'Jadeja had no idea where his blazer was,'' recalls Sunil Dev. 'And when I started to collect everybody's passports, he said: Oh, my passport was in my blazer.' The team-members were apparently so infuriated that they were willing to leave Jadeja behind in Harare. 'Everybody was dying to get back home. The boys said: Let's leave Jadeja behind and go home. And all this while, Jadeja sat, happily singing!' The blazer was later found, alongwith the passport, thanks to room-mate Sunil Joshi's suggestion that Jadeja's bags be checked. 'And everybody - but Jadeja - went through his clothes to find his blazer and passport,' says Dev. That day, Jadeja was forced to pay up. As a fine, he agreed to give up his lunch allowance for the series for a party. The boys had their party, but the basic question - as always - remains unanswered. Does the little story, as some would maintain, highlight his generosity? Or does it, as many others would believe, underline the point that he had ample money to spare?