In Search Of A "Solution"

           On a normal day, devoid of anti-aircraft missile testing and professors running off to Namibia, we have a twenty break between classes to empty our bladders, have a quick chat with would-be-girlfriends, grab a cuppa and laze around in the sun before we are driven back into those well known loads of drivel and sodden theory. In fact, it is those cuppas that save us from snoring our way to a dream sequence with Malaika Arora's grand-daughters and grand sons (if any), in class. If not for that life saving draught of hot beverage, the campus walls will crumble from the collective sounds emanating.
           I seem to have a problem which I have never been able to figure out for a long time, like most of my problems. I know this much. It starts the previous night when I come back to my room after class, strip off my trousers (females, get a grip on yourselves and resist the temptation) fling it onto the nearest chair and crash. The trousers lie forgotten like some ancient mummy until it is excavated by me one fine, dark day when I discover that my dhobi has eloped with his mistress taking with him all my precious clothes after having seduced her with the same. Until then, I lose all memory about the trousers and it's back pocket. And the contents of the back pocket as well. And then my mind seems to lose its marbles all of a sudden.
           In a totally disconnected track, of late I have never been able to find my wallet which is why I am standing in in front of my class, yearning for that elusive cup of coffee.
           In due course of my long and arduous travels from section to section and building to building, I have come to find out, to my utmost satisfaction and pleasure that there are other people whose dhobis too have eloped taking with them, half their wardrobes with which they have seduced their respective mistresses.
           I tracked each one of these poor hapless souls, created a database and laid plans for the final undertaking. One fine day, when I thought the time was riper than the mating capabilities of a moth, I called all of them and organised a meeting in the utmost secrecy.
           At the meeting, I explained to each one of them, the reason why we were here and the plight of the community in general. The group slowly evolved into an underground movement devoted to the noble cause of providing our poor, ailing bodies a strengthening potable. We called ourselves the OCs.
           We, in due course of time, after several torn slippers and spending mosquito/bedbug/cockroach-ridden nights in the local jail, have developed a seven point program which we had to implement. The execution and the results will, in all probability be the object of discussion in my next post.