chubti hai chubti hai ye chubti hai
ye to nigodi mujhe chubti hai chubti hai
ye to nigodi mujhe bhari angiya bhari angiya chubti hai
shadi si ha koi shadi si ye to nigodi mujhe chubti hai
chubti hai ye to nigodi mujhe bhari angiya bhari
angiya chubti hai

gend ek maine jo phenki to gend ek maine jo phenki to
jhijak kar unme kuch ajab dol se kal apni sawari angiya
biwi muglani jo thi layi thi aayi na psand aayi na pasand
beghma ji ne sar unke ho beghma ji ne sar unke
de mari angiya de mari angiya chubti hai allah chubti hai
ye to nigodi mujhe bhari angiya chubti hai

oudhani jo mujhse badli to oudhani jo
mujhse badli to baz jaan ki bhi ek ji ho bhari
se bhari angiya aye ajab koi sikhude
jisne kadhe ye bute kadhe ye bute
wo chire ban gayi ban gayi ek phulo ki kyari
ha ban gayi ek phulo ki kyari kyari
angiya pyari angaiya mujhe chubti hai
ye to nigodi mujhe bhari angiya chubti hai

ho naz pehne koi shabnam ki katori
shab tare yu dub gaye ho sudhari angiya
bahut sudhari angiya sudhari angiya
hath se hinsa ka kahi chhu jo gaya to
hath se hinsa ka kahi chhu jo gaya to
chhede hamari angaiya hamari angaiya hamari angaiya

It pierces, it pierces, this piercing thing,
This wretched one, it stings and it stings.
This wretched one, it stabs my laden blouse,
Simple, yes, a simple one, it stings.
It pierces, this wretched one, my laden blouse,
The blouse, it stings.

A ball I threw, a ball I threw,
Hesitantly, in a strange drumbeat,
The day's procession, my blouse.
The Mughal wife who brought it, did not like it,
Did not like it, the Begum, on their head,
She struck the blouse, struck the blouse that stings,
Allah, it stings!
This wretched one, my laden blouse, it stings.

The veil I changed, the veil I changed,
From me, of the life's weight, the heaviest of blouses,
Ah, a strange thing, that shrivels,
The one who embroidered these buds,
The one who embroidered these buds,
Turned into a garden of flowers,
Yes, turned into a garden of flowers, a garden.
The blouse is beloved, my blouse, it stings,
This wretched one, my laden blouse, it stings.

If elegance wears a bowl of dew,
When night's stars sink away, the blouse improves,
So much improved, improved, improved.
If violence's hand but touches,
If violence's hand but touches,
It tears our blouse, our blouse, our blouse.