In plain words
A cowherd woman complains to Yaśōdā: "He swallows the butter, then flings the empty pot on a rock and listens to the crash it makes. We cannot guard ourselves against the arts that Kaṇṇaṉ, our fine ‘benefactor’, has learned: you must guard your son. In house after house he is skilled at mischief that stings like tamarind poured on a wound. Yaśōdā, lady full of virtue, who bore a son so unlike his elder brother [Balarāma], call your son to you!"