In plain words
I do not have much. I have set aside three sacks of rice and one sack of jaggery. After I die, that rice must be cooked and given to the poor in charity,’ he said. ‘Do you need to think so much about this? I will do it,’ I said. ‘Swami! You will do it. But what I earned with my own hands I must spend,’ he said, and gave me some money. ‘What do I want with your money? Keep it with you,’ I said. ‘No, no. I must be freed from debt. Have this money changed into coins and scattered over my body,’ he said. ‘Why? You are quite well, are you not! Do not worry about anything,’ I told him. From there he went home. He had Gṛham Ammāyi bring him drinking water, drank it, and breathed his last.
Kondamaraju, the father of Pedda Venkamaraju, was the grandfather of this body. He was a supreme devotee. He lived for 112 years. Every day, early in the morning, he would walk from the old mandir to the new mandir. One day he said, ‘Swami, You must fulfil one wish of mine.’ What is that wish? I asked. ‘Tell me when I will go,’ he asked. ‘Why talk of that now? You are well, are you not! When that time comes I will see to it,’ I said. ‘Swami! You were born in our family and have brought it good fame. Your renown has spread through the whole world. Today everyone worships Sai Rāma. But long ago Daśaratha, the father of Śrī Rāma, breathed his last without Rāma pouring water into his mouth. Daśaratha did not have that good fortune. But You must grant me that blessing. You must pour water into my mouth, and only then must I breathe my last,’ he asked. ‘All right, we shall see about it later,’ I said.
One day he came to the mandir, then went home and lay down. He called Easwaramma and told her, ‘See whether Swami is coming from the direction of the Satyamma temple.’ Easwaramma came out, looked, and told him, ‘Swami is coming in the car.’ At that time I had a small ‘Morris Tourer’ car.