As long as the mud remains soft enough to allow the
fish to rise slowly through it, they come to the surface every now and
then to take in a good hearty gulp of air, exactly as gold fish do in
England when confined with thoughtless or ignorant cruelty in a glass
globe too small to provide sufficient oxygen for their respiration. But
when the mud hardens entirely they hibernate or rather aestivate, in a
dormant condition, until the bursting of the monsoon fills the ponds
once more with the welcome water. Even in the perfectly dry state,
however, they probably manage to get a little air every now and again
through the numerous chinks and fissures in the sun-baked mud. Our Aryan
brother then goes a-fishing playfully with a spade and bucket, and digs
the snakehead in this mean fashion out of his comfortable lair, with an
ultimate view to the manufacture of pillau. In Burmah, indeed, while the
mud is still soft, the ingenious Burmese catch the helpless creatures by
a still meaner and more unsportsmanlike device. They spread a large
cloth over the slimy ooze where the snakeheads lie buried, and so cut
off entirely for the moment their supply of oxygen. The poor fish,
half-asphyxiated by this unkind treatment, come up gasping to the
surface under the cloth in search of fresh air, and are then easily
caught with the hand and tossed into baskets by the degenerate
Buddhists.
Old Anglo-Indians even say that some of these mud haunting Oriental
fish will survive for many years in a state of suspended animation, and
that when ponds or jhils which are known to have been dry for several
successive seasons are suddenly filled by heavy rains, they are found to
be swarming at once with full-grown snakeheads released in a moment from
what I may venture to call their living tomb in the hardened bottom.
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