In plain words
People from house after house would come and take away the curries I made. He shut the door. He came while I was cooking. “Sathya, Sathya, Sathya,” he said. “What is it?” I asked. He held both My hands tightly: “Think of these not as hands but as your feet. I am asking for one wish. At my last hour you must pour water into my mouth with your own hands,” he said. I gave him My promise then. After that he lived nineteen years. After the new Mandir was built, he would come and go morning and evening. After all, humanness has a certain pride. Because of that pride and attachment, people cannot open out their hearts fully. He would come right at dawn. I used to sleep in front of the new Mandir. If there was sand, I slept on the sand. Knowing he was coming, I would cover Myself up completely. I covered Myself right over My face. For he was not to know that I was awake. Thinking, “He is asleep,” he would lift the blanket at My feet, bow to My feet and go. He had his pride: if others saw a man of nearly a hundred bowing to his grandson, what might they think? The moment he left, I would get up and sit.
Those who sleep, forgetting the body, anyone at all can wake; the great one who shuts his eyes and pretends to sleep: who can rouse him? Why this trickery, Kṛṣṇa? Enough of Your līlās!
So the Gopīs used to sing. Anyone can come and wake one who is fast asleep. No one can wake one who shuts his eyes and pretends to be asleep. There is no way to wake him. In this way I went on doing My līlās. The promise I had given him drew near. In those days I would drive the car Myself. I sat in a Morris 200 car and went into the city. Kondamaraju called Easwaramma. “Easwaramma, come,” he said. “Swami is coming. He is coming just for me. The time has come. Bring a tumbler of drinking water,” he said. He told her to take the tulasī leaf lying in front of him and put it in the glass.