The music teacher

The music teacher frowned. One of her students was looking outside the window and writing a novel. It was a long novel, and the music teacher waited patiently for her student to complete it. After a few minutes, she asked, If your majesty is done writing his novel, will he please hum the syllables Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa? The student, who suspected he was a very poor novelist, said: That is MayamalavaGaula. Please, don't sing it in my presence. The music teacher said, What impudence! and hawked out a great gob of phlegm, which landed smack on the page on which the student was writing. The student said, Please don't hawk phlegm on my novel's pages. The ink tends to dissolve. At this, the music teacher was filled with remorse, and said: You are like my son, or at least, you are not unlike him. Yes, the student said. I am indeed not unlike your son. The student thought that `indeed' was an archaic word, and, wiping away the phlegm, made a mental note never to use it in any of his novels.