Listen, dear daughter-in-law, do not waste the milk and curds. Your mother-in-law has set out for Pandharpur but only got as far as the village gate before turning back home. Listen carefully, child, and guard the cracked pot with care. Do not break my curd-stirrer without me. Do not break the dried-dung coating on the grinding-stones without me. My mind is attached to the mortar, pestle, and grinding-stone. If a mendicant comes to the house, tell him I have gone to Pandharpur. Eat simply and do not cook too elaborately. The daughter-in-law says sweetly, go happily on your pilgrimage, mother; give up all backward-looking attachment. Hearing her daughter-in-law's words, the old woman thinks to herself: my rival wants me gone. So why should I go on pilgrimage at all? What would I see there anyway? My children, grandchildren, house, and home are my Pandharpur right here. Says Tuka, such is the way of people, bound by the ropes of illusion.