na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai

pahan kar bhai ki lungi chali hai sair ko bahna
meri mano to tum aisi bala se dur hi rahna
chipak kar rah gayi tango se ye patlun angreji
ye kapde aise pahne hai ke jaise kuch nahi pahna
lage hai is ko par jhuthe ye dhokhe baz titli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai

laga ke surkhi or lali kiya hai lal galo ko
banaya ghosla chidiyo ka apne sir ke balo ko
na iski aankh me jadu na isko chal me masti
bana dala hai andha isne sare aankh walo ko
ye bahar se hai narangi magar andar se imli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai

ye nakhre aise karti hai ke jaise chini gudiya hai
magar najdik se dekho to ye paishath ki pudiya hai
pati bhi iska ghabrata hai ghar wale bhi darte hai
na ud jaye kahi hatho se ye sone ki chidiya hai
ye surat se lage devi magar aafat ki putli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai
ye bambai hai hasino ki yaha har chiz nakli hai
na inka rang asli hai na inka rup asli hai

Their hues are borrowed, their forms a painted lie,
This Bombay blooms, where beauty's crafted sigh
Echoes through illusions, a fleeting plea,
Their hues are borrowed, their forms a painted lie.

The sister struts forth, in borrowed brother's cloth,
A caution whispered, steer clear of such froth.
Tight trousers cling, a foreign, grasping hold,
Dressed in garments, a story never told,
A deceptive touch, a treacherous butterfly,
This Bombay blooms, where beauty's crafted sigh.

Rouge and crimson, a fiery, burning blush,
A bird's nest sculpted, where the wild thoughts rush.
No magic in her gaze, no joy in her gait,
She blinds all gazers, sealing their fate,
Oranges of façade, with tamarind inside,
This Bombay blooms, where beauty's crafted sigh.

She preens and postures, a porcelain grace,
Yet close inspection reveals a weary face,
Her husband trembles, her kin hold their breath,
Fearing the golden bird will fly to death,
A goddess in visage, a tempest's decree,
This Bombay blooms, where beauty's crafted sigh.
Echoes through illusions, a fleeting plea,
This Bombay blooms, where beauty's crafted sigh
Their hues are borrowed, their forms a painted lie.