THIS IS GASTRONOMANCY JUNE WEEK 3 TUNES

Steve—The Gully Galli Funk Parade

Steve and Croak

When Steve the Otter became the mayor of Allahabad, he promised three things: more lotus ponds, less honking, and an official day off for full-moon gazing. But nowhere in his manifesto did it mention the revival of Bollywood funk. That, as history would record, happened entirely by accident.

It began on a Sunday.

Allahabad was unusually quiet near Sangam. No traffic jams. No arguments near the kulfi cart. Not even the usual murmur of boatmen humming “ mere sajan hain us paar, main manmar, o mere majhi le chal paar” across the Ganga.

Steve sat on the mayor’s swing, an elegant cane affair with cushions shaped like jalebis, sipping chilled jaljeera and staring moodily at a pigeon that had dozed off mid-coo.

“Croak,” he said, turning to his ever-alert assistant frog, “where has the funk gone?”

Croak, dressed sharply in his tiny Nehru jacket, adjusted his monocle and replied, “Gone, sir. Ever since the old transistor broke at Sharma Gumti, the city’s been... offbeat.”

Steve gasped. “You mean—no Pukarta Chala Hoon Main in the air?”

Croak shook his head solemnly.

For a moment, time froze. Somewhere in the distance, a harmonium sighed.

Steve stood up. “This calls for action. The soul of Allahabad is not just in her sangam, Croak. It’s in the saaz.”

He paced dramatically, paws clasped behind his back. “We shall form a band,” he declared. “A real one. Funk, retro, bollywood, desi. We’ll call it…”

Croak leaned in. “Yes?”

“The Monsoon Medley.”

Croak blinked. “Sir… that’s brilliant.”

“And I,” said Steve, already imagining his reflection in a mirrored waistcoat, “will lead it.”

Auditions were announced through huge posters, as money was not a problem for the mayor of Allahabad.

The morning of the audition dawned with a swagger; a bright sun rose over the Ganga, and in Allahabad’s old colonial quarter, the Clock Tower was thumping with animal excitement. Word had spread fast: Steve, the Otter mayor, was forming a funk band, and the winner might even get to perform at the Winter Croakfest—the city’s most prestigious interspecies music carnival at the Sangeet Samiti!

Croak, clipboard in hand and bowtie slightly askew, croaked into his megaphone:
“Alright, alright, settle down. We start with mammals, then birds, reptiles, insects, and miscellaneous. No peacocks cutting the line this time, please!”

The peacocks walked out in a huff!

Steve, leaning against a tuba twice his size, whispered, “Croak, are we ready for this?”

Croak sighed, “No. But neither was Lata Mangeshkar the first time she sang into a mic.”

The animals gathered in lines; their instruments were wildly improvised.

• Ella the elephant had a trio of barrels she drummed on with her trunk.

• Rafi, the rooster, crowed into a long tube fitted with a harmonium bellows.

• Geeta, the gecko, had a harmonica that was now duct-taped to a thali.

• Tito, the turtle, drummed on garden furniture.

• Croak had sourced a neon triangle from an abandoned rave in Kashi.

Steve, of course, had his water banjo, strung with recycled fishing line.

“Alright,” Steve said. “Let’s take it from the top. One… two… three!”
The music began, a cacophony at first.

Then the contestants began to funk.

First up was Ella the Elephant, who attempted to beatbox using her trunk.
“Wubba-wubba-WHOOOMP!” she said.
A small bird fainted.
Steve gave her a thumbs-up. “You got bass, Ella. Real low-end. Might blow out the speakers, but we’ll take it!”

Next came Rafi the Rooster, channeling Mohd. Rafi’s soulful rendition of “Pukarta Chala Hoon Main.”
Feathers shimmered, hens swooned, and one old turtle clapped in time.
“Flair,” Steve nodded. “Pure flair.”

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Geeta the Gecko arrived with a harmonica tucked under her tiny chin. She played, “ tu jahan jahan chalega, mera saya saath hoga”, blues so mournful that even Croak dabbed a tear.
“Where’d you learn that?” Steve whispered.
“I had heartbreak in Bandra,” she said.

By noon, the short list was clear:

• Ella on beatbox and bass-thumps

• Rafi on vocals and rooster-power

• Geeta on harmonica and lizard blues

• Tito the Turtle, on the drums

• And Croak, surprisingly skilled on the triangle

As Steve strummed his underwater banjo, he looked around and smiled. “This…this is it, Croak. This is funk. This is family.”

Steve stood on a garden stool; it wobbled a little.

“Bandmates,” he said, arms outstretched like a conductor of destiny, “before we funk, we must christen ourselves. Something bold. Something… unforgettable.”

“What about Croak and the Croquettes?” offered Croak, his bowtie sparkling under a lantern.

“No offense,” said Ella the Elephant, “but that sounds like a food item.”

“Funky Pawz?” suggested Rafi the Rooster.

“Too obvious,” muttered Geeta. “We need something... with story.”

They sat in silence. Then Tito the Turtle, chewing thoughtfully on a twig, looked up and said,

“Why not… The Gully Galli Funk Parade?”

Everyone blinked. Steve’s eyes widened.

“It’s got rhythm, geography, and confusion,” he whispered.

The band is rehearsing

The day had finally come. The sun rose over Allahabad with a shimmer of jazz in the air. Rickety cycle-rickshaws clattered past, raddiwalas hawked yesterday’s news, and a langur swung by the mango tree as though nodding approval: "It’s showtime."

Steve stood behind the makeshift curtain, a dhurrie hanging off two sugarcane poles, adjusting his polka-dotted bow. Croak wore sequins (borrowed from a discarded Bhojpuri film costume, and paced nervously with a clipboard made of dried neem bark.

“This is it, Steve! The whole market’s here—even the buffalo from the chai shop!”

Steve peeped out. Indeed, the crowd was massive. Vegetable vendors had abandoned their weighing scales. Children with sticky faces clutched roasted peanuts. Aunties fanned themselves with coriander leaves. And up front, in dignified anticipation, stood a group of goats in sunglasses, tails already twitching to a beat only they could hear.

“Mic check!” Croak shouted, tapping a broken tabla retrofitted as a speaker with an old loudspeaker horn stuck into it. A garbled reverb shot through the square like a monsoon cloud gone off-key.

“Welcome,” Steve said suavely into the mic, “to the very first performance of Gully Galli Funk Parade and The Groove Animals!”

A pause.

Then, BAM!

The band launched into their opener, a funky, remixed version of “Paisa yeh paisa, kaisa hai paisa, yeh ho musibat, na ho musibat,” where the sitar had been replaced with a coconut-shell guitar and backup vocals were provided by three pigeons who could harmonize in perfect pitch. The goats immediately broke into a synchronized dance routine they had apparently rehearsed in secret, a hoof-thumping number involving sideways trots and coordinated bleats.

Steve swayed, slapped his tail in rhythm, and scatted into the mic like a true show-otter. Croak did backing vocals, sometimes getting carried away and leaping three feet in the air, showering droplets like a holy water sprinkler gone rogue.

But then—

CREAK... GROAN... SNAP.

The stage, built on borrowed crates of overripe bananas, wobbled, tilted, and gave up on its structural integrity with all the grace of a startled elephant.

THUD.

The entire band fell into a watermelon cart.

Gasps from the crowd. A hush. A floating pigeon feather.

Then a small voice shouted:

“Once more!”

Cheers erupted. The goats bleated louder. Even the buffalo grunted rhythmically. Steve, juice-streaked but undeterred, leapt to his feet, holding a smashed watermelon like a trophy.

“Thank you, Allahabad!” he bellowed. “We’ll be back next week, with a stronger stage!”

Croak pulled a banana peel from his eye and added, “And possibly fewer melons.”

The curtain, now detached and tangled in a goat’s horns, flapped precariously in the breeze as the band exited the stage.

Faceoff with rivals

The morning after the market mayhem, Steve lay sprawled on a banana-leaf hammock, gently humming the chorus of their hit number “Funky Fruit Fiesta.” Croak was examining a cracked tabla shell and grumbling into his tea.

“That stage didn’t just collapse,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “It was pushed.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

Croak nodded gravely. “Sabotage. I smelled feathers in the air.”

That’s when the telegram arrived.

Delivered by a nervous squirrel postman, it read in glittery, perfumed ink:

To the so-called Funk Band:

Your funky nonsense ends now. The only music this town needs is the royal ruffle of feathers and the divine rustle of plumage.

- The Peacock Posse

Croak jumped up. “Those showy, prancing peacocks from Parade Grounds! The same ones who perform on Republic Day with patriotic bhangra beats!”

Steve gritted his whiskers. The Peacock Posse was infamous, a preening, dramatic group of elite dancers who took themselves very seriously. Led by the flamboyant Captain Chandramohan, they wore sequins even to breakfast and had once demanded an orchestra be hired to accompany their morning strut.

“We’ll pay them a visit,” Steve declared. “Funk is love. Funk is joy. Funk is for everyone, even creatures without tail feathers.”

Later that evening, in the Parade Grounds…

Captain Chandramohan stood under a spotlight fashioned out of old mirrors and torchlight, polishing his sapphire-blue feathers. His posse, all twenty-three of them, flanked him in a V-formation, each with matching jhumkas and passive-aggressive smirks.

“You!” Chandramohan said, eyeing Steve. “Otters belong in rivers, not rhythm. You’ve muddied the market with your antics.”

Steve folded his paws calmly. “We don’t compete, Captain. We jam.”

Croak added, “Also, pushing over our banana-crate stage was not cool.”

Chandramohan sniffed. “The stage was a hazard. You’re welcome.”

A tense silence fell. Somewhere, a dholak boomed.

Then, unexpectedly, a challenge.

“Fine,” Steve said. “One week. Same market. You bring your feathers. We bring the funk. Let the crowd decide.”

Chandramohan raised an eyebrow. “A Dance-Off Royale?”

Croak croaked, “With backup goats.”

It was on.

It began, as many legendary rivalries do, with a shimmer and a strut.

Steve was adjusting his vintage sunglasses, the kind with blue rims and disco ball sides, while Croak practiced his signature drumstick flip using two papaya peels. The market square in Allahabad was still recovering from the Great Stage Collapse when goats got too groovy, but the animals were undeterred. They’d rebuilt a new stage from leftover fruit crates, lassi barrels, and bicycle wheels.

The funk was returning.

Just as Steve was about to cue their opening number, a soulful “Yeh shaam mastani, madhosh kiye jaye,” a hush fell over the crowd.

Feathers.

So many feathers.

In strutted Chandramohan the Peacock, leader of Mayur Dynasty, the rival bird band with questionable morals and impeccable eyeliner. Behind him, his crew fanned out: long legs, shimmering tails, and the audacity of haute couture pigeons.

“Steve,” Chandramohan drawled, twirling a feathered cane, “I see you're still playing... pondside tunes.”

Croak blinked. “That’s Mayor Steve to you.”

A snicker rippled through the peacocks.

“We heard about your little... goatquake,” Chandramohan said, eyeing the patched-up stage. “So we thought, why not give the crowd a real show? Winner rules the Saturday markets.”

Steve stepped forward, paws on hips. “You're on, glitterpants.”

The crowd, monkeys in turbans, a chorus of chattering squirrels, a hypnotized cobra in a glass jar, gathered in a tight circle. On one side: the Mayur Dynasty, all polished moves and preening arrogance. On the other hand, Steve’s ragtag groove troop, including one suspiciously acrobatic goat and a porcupine with rhythm.

The peacocks opened with a synchronized shimmer — tails spinning like chakras, beaks tapping like castanets. The crowd gasped. Even Croak croaked in awe.

But Steve wasn’t done yet.

He took center stage. Silence.

Then: slide, shimmy, moonpaw.

Croak joined in with a twirl, spinning on a banana peel and flipping mid-air to land on a tabla. The goat moonwalked. The porcupine did a spontaneous backflip that startled a few pigeons off the power line.

The crowd went wild. Coconuts were tossed in the air. Lassi was spilled. Even Chandramohan’s eyeliner twitched.

In the end, it wasn’t just about the dance. It was the soul, the funk, the fact that Steve and his crew danced like no one was watching, even though everyone was.

Chandramohan fluffed his feathers and bowed stiffly. “Until next time, otter.”

Steve smiled, lifting his sunglasses. “Bring feathers. We’ll bring fire.”

The music slowed. The air was thick with dust, feathers, and suspense.

A squirrel in a sari climbed onto a lassi barrel and raised a paw. “Jury of the jungle!” she squeaked. “By unanimous hoots, howls, and head-bobs, the winner of the Funky Market Dance-Off is…”

A drumroll — courtesy of Croak’s papaya tabla.

“STEVE AND THE FUNKTASTICS!”

The crowd erupted. The goats broke into spontaneous bhangra. The monkeys swung down from mango carts, beating rhythms on coconut shells. Even the usually solemn tortoise blinked twice in celebration.

Chandramohan, the Peacock, glistening but gloomy, let out a soft squawk. He turned to leave, nose, or rather, beak in the air, when one of his tail feathers got caught in a rogue bicycle spoke. He squawked louder, flailed dramatically, and splashed right into a tub of haldi lassi.

Croak leaned over to Steve. “Pride,” he croaked sagely, “goes before a fall.”

Steve grinned, pulling off his sunglasses to wink at the crowd. “And funk,” he said, “always finds its way home.”

As the sun dipped below the market stalls, Steve's band struck up one final number. “Abhi na jao chor kar, ki dil abhi bhara nahin,” Not for victory. Not for rivalry.

Just for joy.

And somewhere in the back, a very sticky, yellow peacock plotted his comeback… from a bucket.

Steve and Croak celebrating