In plain words
Kaṇṇaṉ, says Yaśōdā, you swallowed the butter with the soft-cooked lentils, tipped over the pot of curds and drank it down, brought crashing down the asuras who had taken the shape of the marutu trees by their false magic, and now you come back as if nothing had happened. Perfect one, child so practised in such wonders, the onlookers call you my son. Lord of all, I know you now for what you are [the Lord, not my child]. I am afraid to give you my milk.