In plain words
Even if you print trivial matters beautifully in golden letters and send them in a fine envelope worth five rupees, that mother will tear it up, but she will not read it and rejoice. Such is the Prema between mother and son.
In the same way, you may wear rudrākṣa beads and bracelets on the body, grow matted locks, make a great display in showy dress, and give voice to the ślokas of the Vedas, Śāstras, Purāṇas and Itihāsas: all these are only envelopes; the details of what the letter inside says: are they base, are they noble? Are they full of Prema, or tainted with attachment and hatred: this is what the Mother of the world examines. If it is a life filled with noble feelings, She rejoices. If they are not there, She says ‘Chī, chī!’ and is filled with disgust. However many kinds of learning you master, whatever posts you hold, whatever honours you win, if you live without bringing joy to the mother of your own body and to that Mother of the world too, without offering them gratitude, without pleasing those mothers who swell with joy at the smallest thing, without satisfying them, that life is simply wasted; there is no doubt.