In plain words
He used to sing. They put him up on the stage. The moment he climbed that stage, Swami came to his mind. He wept aloud. Everyone wept. “No more prayer at all,” they said. As soon as I came to Puttaparthi, Ramesh and Suresh: they should not have done that. Ramesh cried out, “Rāju, Rāju, are you going?” and fell into a well. With the words “We cannot live without you,” he died. The second one went mad. They took him to a Bangalore hospital and admitted him. His father came and prayed. “Swami, he is the boy who sat in Your class. He is our only son. This is the state he has come to. Come once and give him darśan,” he said. Going to Bangalore, I saw him in the mental hospital. He came, saying, “Rāju, Rāju.” He was not looking at anyone. “Suresh, I, Rāju, have come, look,” I said. He raised his head and looked. He closed his eyes. Closed them forever. He died. Suresh and Ramesh, those very two, were born as jack and jill. In the old mandir they named the little ones jack and jill. One would lie at My feet, one at My head. Each would keep watch, at the head and at the feet. All night they would not sleep. Whoever appeared, they would bark. In this way they grew up right beside Me, in the house, as a pair. One day the Rani of Mysore came. She got out of her car at Karnatakapalli. From there one had to walk. She came to the old mandir. Then the driver had his supper and was going to Karnatakapalli. I said, “Jack, you too go with the driver and show him the way.” At night you cannot see the way. Jack walking ahead, the driver going behind. It showed him the road and took him to the car. The driver was greatly amazed. What is this, a dog showing me the way? I told him, “Not dog, God,” I said. One inside. One outside. Their faith was so deep. After they died, they came and were born right beside Swami. The moment he got up at dawn, the driver started the car. He remembered none of this. He set off meaning to go round a mile's distance and come back. Jack was lying under the car. The tyre went over its waist. Its backbone broke. From there, dragging its leg, it was coming through the riverbed. With Me at night there used to be one Subbanna, a washerman. He was a man of standing, poor fellow.