In plain words
Alas, has this jīva gone off and left Me? That is just why, if we offer ourselves back again just so that such a God may have no sorrow at all, God remains in Ānanda. Coal is Ajñāna, fire is Jñāna; when not only do the two, Jñāna and Ajñāna, come together, but the breeze called divine Prema blows as well, the jīva and God become one. This jīva and God become one. Original and reflection both become one. That is just why: An eternal portion of Me has become the jīva in the world of the living. ‘From time without beginning these jīvas are a portion of Me Myself,’ says God. But through the influence of this Kali age the jīva appears separate and God separate. In no age should such a separation happen. The jīva does not grieve, but God keeps grieving. God has no sorrow at all; but He grieves that His own friend is moving far from Him. In this world God alone is our lasting friend. All these worldly friends too: hello, hello, how are you? Good bye, good bye. He does not say hello, does not say how are you, does not say good bye. But when you join God, it is nothing but Ānanda for you and nothing but Ānanda for God. But when separation comes, God does not say so, yet He keeps grieving. ‘Why is this jīva taking such a wrong road, why is he forgetting this truth? He is moving far from divinity, he is losing his purity,’ so He grieves very much. Even this is not for God's own sake. It is for the devotee's sake alone. Whatever He does, whatever He sees, whatever He says, it is for you alone. That is just why this seperation is unbearable to the jīva. Rāma, Lakṣmaṇa and Sītā went to the forest in keeping with their father's command. But Sītā, who had never known the sun, walked the whole way and grew weary. They went up the Citrakūṭa hill. Sitting under a tree, Rāma spoke. ‘Lakṣmaṇa! Build a leaf hut, dear one.’ ‘Where, Swami?’ he asked. ‘Build it wherever you like,’ He said. Lakṣmaṇa could not bear these harsh words.