In plain words
What was left were just two syllables. These two syllables are two-syllable names of this kind: Rāma, Hari, Hara, Kṛṣṇa, Sāī. He gave only the Names, equally, to the three worlds. That is why the Name is like a boat for life. For one who prays to cross this ocean called saṃsāra, the Name of God is utterly necessary. That is why, in the Kali age, the Name alone is supreme.
The Name of Hari, the Name of Hari, the Name of Hari alone; in the Kali age there is no other way, none, none at all.
They concluded that in the Kali age we cannot attain Śānti of mind through dhyāna, yoga, tapas, yajña or yāga, but only through the Name of God.
The Name of God can turn even poison into nectar. At all hours and in all places Mīrā kept only Kṛṣṇa’s Name in her mind. Seeing how things stood, the Mahārāṇā tried to cure her of her madness and laid many schemes. She made no distinctions. She had neither pride nor possessiveness. She had no Ahaṅkāra and no show. Among kings or among holy men, among any people at all, in any bazaar, she went about chanting the Name of Kṛṣṇa. She went through the bazaar singing, “Rāma ratana dhana pāyo, pāyo re maine.” The Mahārāṇā saw this sight. I hold the royal throne. My wedded wife goes about among these kings and these holy men like a beggar, playing the tambura. This is a disgrace for me, is it not? he thought. She told him many times: What honour or dishonour is there in uttering the Name of God? Uttering the Name of God is itself honour. Not uttering it is itself dishonour. If you give room to pride, thinking that people will hear, or wondering what people will think, the very principle of the Ātma in you will wither. With courage and daring, thinking, “This is my duty, this is what I love,” you must conquer pride and the sense of ‘mine’ and call on the Name of God. With such courage and daring she did not let the influence of outsiders change her nature. The Mahārāja tried every way to talk her round. Mīrā. If you go on singing like this, the whole world will take you for a madwoman. People will chatter at you like crows, he said. Then Mīrā spoke. Mahārāja! Does the cuckoo stop its song because of the cawing of crows? The cawing of crows remains the crows’ own. Do cuckoos give up their song for fear of it? The people of the world are crows. The Name of God is the cuckoo’s song. If dogs bark at the stars, the stars do not fall. Mahārāja, where are the stars, and where are the dogs? In uttering the Name of God, which stands at the very highest level, why should we bow to these worldly people, with their frivolous antics, their Ajñāna and Ahaṅkāra?