GASTROMANCY JUNE WEEK 4 CHALLENGE

The Great Pickle Revival

Steve and the Great Jackfruit Pickle Revival

After the now-legendary Gully Galli Funk gig, the one with dancing goats, collapsing stages, and a show-stealing frog in bell-bottoms, Steve the Otter Mayor found himself... broke.

Not artistically broke, mind you. Spirit? Sky-high. Fan following? Unmatched. Purse? Flat as a kachori.

Croak the frog, still wearing his sequinned waistcoat from the concert, surveyed their modest mayor’s office, which now doubled up as a musical lounge, and a nap corner.

“Steve,” Croak said gravely, holding up their balance sheet, scribbled on a napkin, “we’re in the red. Like deep red. Like ‘painted the donkey’ red.”

Steve slumped in his revolving chair made of discarded scooter parts. “We need a plan,” he muttered.

From the courtyard came the sharp, tangy smell of jackfruit, Seema’s amma’s legendary pickles being sun-dried on old sheets.

Steve’s otter nose twitched. A beat passed. Then his eyes gleamed with genius.

“Croak. We’re going into the pickle business.”

Croak blinked. “Are you unwell?”

“No. I am inspired. We shall bottle the funk. Literal funk. Jackfruit funk!”

And so, Operation Kathal Achar began.

The next week saw a transformation of Allahabad’s Town Hall into a chaotic pickle lab. Jackfruits came rolling in by the dozen. Spices flew. Croak stirred giant cauldrons while Steve experimented with label designs.

“Mayor’s Funky Chunky Kathal”

“Achar Attack: No Mercy, Only Masala”

“Otterly Delicious, 100% Croak-Approved”

Soon, Steve had repurposed the old campaign van into a pickle truck, with a loudspeaker blaring:

“Tangy! Twangy! This isn’t your nani’s pickle; it’s Steve’s Otterly Funky Kathal! Roll up, roll up!”

The citizens were… confused at first.

But one bite in, and they were hooked.

Auto drivers sang jingles. Old aunties took selfies with Steve. A local poet composed a ghazal about the “pickle that brought peace to my in-laws.”

Money started pouring in. Steve was back in business.

Of course, trouble was never far. Especially not with the jealous peacocks watching from their rooftop disco den, plotting their next sabotage…

The Peacocks Strike Back

As Steve’s Otterly Funky Kathal Achar swept through the gallis of Allahabad, there was one group not amused: the Royal Peacocks of Ashok Nagar, self-declared lords of elegance, melody, and moonlit dance-dramas.

Perched atop their disco-lit rooftop hideout, the peacocks watched Steve’s pickle empire grow like wild mustard.

“He used to run concerts,” said Chandramohan, the tallest peacock with emerald plumes and a monocle. “Now he’s selling pickles and still stealing our limelight!”

A second peacock, Chintu, fumed. “He made a rap song about jackfruit achar. It has a beat drop.”

Worse, their own latest album, “Rainfall Romance: Volume 12,” had flopped. Not even one auntie had downloaded it.

The peacocks decided Operation Sour Grapes must commence.

That night, as the moon cast a suspiciously dramatic spotlight over the pickle cart, shadows moved.

Croak stirred a fresh batch of achar inside their kitchen when he heard it, a clink. He looked out the window.

Nothing.

But the next morning, Steve let out a howl.

“Croooak! Someone’s switched our kathal jars with... shampoo bottles!”

Sure enough, bottles labeled “Funky Kathal Achar” were filled with coconut shampoo.

Then came the worst: midnight graffiti on their van, sprayed in shimmering teal:

“REAL FUNK HAS FEATHERS.”

Steve was furious. “Those sequined, tail-swishing saboteurs! They want war?”

Croak adjusted his goggles. “Then we give them one. The Great Achar Showdown. Funk vs. Fluff.”

Posters were slapped across town:

“THE FINAL FACE-OFF: PICKLE POWER VS. PEACOCK POSSE!”

Live at Parade Ground. Winner takes all… and controls Allahabad’s cultural calendar for the year.

The crowd was electric. The goats wore glowsticks. The cows brought folding chairs.

The peacocks arrived in glittering cloaks and choreographed twirls.

Steve rolled in on his cart, Croak beside him, drums strapped to his back, and jackfruit slices in holsters like chutney bullets.

The stage was set.

And the music?

Aa dekhe zara kisme hai kitna dum, jam ke rakhana kadam, mere sathiya

About to get dangerously delicious.

The Standoff Before the Storm

The parade ground was no longer just a dusty field.

It had transformed into a cosmic clash zone, half covered in shiny disco tiles (courtesy of the peacocks), the other half strewn with banana leaves, steel tiffins, and a glowing neon banner that read:

“CHUTNEY OR CHACHA-CHA: WHO SHALL RULE?”

On one side:

Steve the Otter, sporting a headband made of pickled chili, arms folded, tail twitching. Beside him stood Croak, calm but alert, his purple waistcoat now upgraded with LED buttons that blinked to the beat of an imaginary drum solo.

On the other:

The Royal Peacocks of Ashok Nagar, fanning out in a crescent, feathers raised like swords. Chandramohan, their ringleader, wore a shimmering gold anklet that jingled menacingly. Chintu had eyeliner sharp enough to slice a papaya.

The crowd held its breath: cows, goats, squirrels, and even a stray mongoose wearing sunglasses. Local aunties clutched their pickle jars nervously.

Croak leaned toward Steve. “They’ve brought backup. That one’s got tap shoes.”

Steve cracked his knuckles. “So? I’ve got jackfruit.”

A referee stepped out, a mole in a judge’s wig and striped shirt. “Competitors! You know the rules. One stage. One song. One snack. Winner gets the title of Ultimate Vibe-Master of Allahabad!”

A hush fell.

Chandramohan stepped forward. “We shall perform the Monsoon Masala Medley, choreographed by our ancestors and TikTok.”

Steve grinned. “Nice. We’ll follow it up with Funk da Achar, featuring live dholak, frog beatbox, and one very spicy chorus.”

The music truck revved in the background.

Croak whispered, “I brought the emergency mango-chili confetti.”

Steve nodded. “Good. We may need extra flavor.”

Then the mole blew a whistle.

Let the battle begin.

The Great Gully-Galli Funk Faceoff

It was dusk at the Parade Ground of Allahabad. Spotlights glimmered on a makeshift stage. A crowd of thousands cheered and stomped; goats in glitter vests, buffaloes in bell-bottoms, and langurs with LED bangles. Even the kites circling above paused mid-glide to catch a glimpse.

In the left corner:

Steve the Otter, mayor, dreamer, and funk revivalist, slick in his sequined waistcoat and wide-collared shirt. Beside him, Croak the Frog, green as envy, in disco shoes two sizes too big.

In the right corner:

A strutting brigade of peacocks, led by the preening and proud Chandramohan and Chintu, feathers fanned wide like a personal rainbow.

“Let the battle begin!” shrieked a squirrel MC, standing atop a dhol.

Round One: The Peacocks’ Pirouette

The beat dropped, a tabla loop with a sitar.

Chandramohan stepped forward. He swirled, spun, and swept across the stage in a whirl of teal and gold. His fellow peacocks followed, executing perfect pirouettes, their tail feathers shimmering like miniature firecrackers.

Chintu backflipped into a slow-motion feather-fan split. The crowd gasped.

The goats began bleating in rhythm. The parrots screeched, “Oooooh!”

Round Two: The Amphibian Funk

Croak grinned and slapped his thigh. “Let’s leap, my guy.”

He sprang high, twirling midair like a possessed frog, then landed with a deep squat bounce that shook the stage.

He moonwalked, or rather, pond-walked backward into a set of synchronized lunges, the kind no peacock could match without dislocating a hip.

The crowd went nuts. One porcupine fainted. The jackfruit seller dropped his tray.

Final Round: Steve’s Jackfruit Mic Drop

Then came Steve. He strutted forward slowly, spinning a jackfruit on a string like a deadly yo-yo.

The band struck up “aa dekhe zara kisme kitna hai dum” mashed with heavy funk bass.

Steve danced like lightning across butter, fluid, fearless, and full of old Bollywood moves.

He pointed to the sky, did the Amitabh Bachchan side shuffle, then twisted into a pirouette of his own.

He raised the jackfruit.

“This is for Allahabad!”

MIC DROP. Well… jackfruit drop, really.

The fruit hit the floor. The speakers crackled in awe.

Silence. Then Roar.

The crowd erupted.

Peacocks stood stunned, feathers drooping.

A parrot yelled, “That’s how you peel the funk!”

Steve and Croak high-fived. Somewhere, a tabla wept tears of joy.

The Truce of Trumpets and Tailfeathers

Two days after the legendary dance-off, the air in Allahabad was still buzzing. Jackfruit was being sold in honor of Steve. Croak had become a meme. But the peacocks… were not pleased.

Chandramohan sat sulking under a banyan tree, dipping his feathers in turmeric milk.

“This town has forgotten grace,” he muttered. “All funk, no finesse.”

But before feathers could flare again, a giant grey shadow appeared: Motu, the retired Governor of Uttar Pradesh.

Motu was an elephant of few words, but trees leaned in to listen when he spoke. He called for a truce summit at the Sangam Ghat. Everyone came to the banks of the holy river, the site where traditions met triveni.

Steve wore his mayoral sash, over his disco shirt. Croak carried a harmonium. The peacocks arrived stiff and glittery, still sore from the pirouettes.

Motu raised his trunk.

“Enough. This city was built on rhythm and reason. If you wish to duel, do it with dignity… or with duets.”

Steve blinked. “Are you saying?”…

“Yes,” Motu said. “A collaboration.”

Chandramohan gasped. “Never!”

Croak whispered, “We could call it... Feathers & Funk.”

And so it was declared:

The peacocks would choreograph.

Steve and Croak would compose.

Their joint concert, “Raga, aur Rhythm,” would tour all of North India.

The city rejoiced. Samosas were fried in celebration. The goats wore sunglasses for no reason. Steve got a statue. Croak got a new pair of shoes. Even Chandramohan signed an autograph or two.

Motu, satisfied, slowly walked back to his mango orchard, knowing peace had prevailed.

Feathers and Funk coming soon to your city…