The Story of the Sleeper and the Waker

In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, I shall recount to you the wondrous tale of Abu al-Hasan, known as the Sleeper and the Waker, whose extraordinary adventure with the great Caliph Harun al-Rashid became one of the most celebrated stories told in the coffee houses of Baghdad.

In the days when Baghdad was the jewel of the Islamic world and the Caliph Harun al-Rashid ruled with wisdom and justice from his magnificent palace, there lived in a modest quarter of the city a young man named Abu al-Hasan. He was the son of a merchant who had left him a small inheritance—just enough to support a life of gentle comfort without the necessity of regular work.

Abu al-Hasan was a man of refined tastes and generous spirit, but he possessed one peculiarity that had earned him both friends and troubles throughout his life: he could not bear the company of fools, liars, or bores, and he was not diplomatic in expressing his opinions. This forthright nature had cost him many relationships, for while his friends appreciated his honesty, they often found his criticism of social conventions uncomfortable.

To solve this problem, Abu al-Hasan had developed an unusual habit. Each day, he would position himself at one of the bridges leading into Baghdad and invite the first interesting stranger he encountered to share his evening meal and spend the night as his guest. The only conditions he imposed were that his guest must be intelligent company, must not ask personal questions, and must depart the following morning never to return.

This arrangement suited Abu al-Hasan perfectly, for it provided him with stimulating conversation without the complications that arose from long-term relationships. His guests, usually travelers or merchants passing through the city, were delighted to enjoy excellent food and comfortable lodging in exchange for an evening of civilized discussion.

One evening in the month of Ramadan, as Abu al-Hasan stood upon the Bridge of Boats watching the sunset paint the Tigris River gold and crimson, he observed a man approaching whose appearance intrigued him greatly. The stranger was dressed in the simple robes of a merchant, but his bearing suggested someone accustomed to command, and his eyes held the alertness of one who had seen much of the world and understood its complexities.

“Peace be upon you, brother,” said Abu al-Hasan, stepping forward with his customary courtesy.

“And upon you, peace,” replied the stranger, studying Abu al-Hasan with equal interest. “You have the look of a man with something on his mind.”

“Indeed I do,” laughed Abu al-Hasan. “I was thinking how pleasant it would be to share my evening meal with someone whose conversation might prove more interesting than my own thoughts. If you are a traveler in need of hospitality, and if you can promise me intelligent discourse without personal inquiries, you are welcome to be my guest tonight.”

The stranger’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Your offer intrigues me, friend. I accept, with the understanding that I too prefer privacy regarding personal matters.”

As they walked through the winding streets toward Abu al-Hasan’s modest but comfortable house, the two men discovered an immediate rapport. The stranger proved to be extraordinarily well-informed about affairs throughout the Islamic world, and he possessed a wit that matched Abu al-Hasan’s own.

The evening meal Abu al-Hasan provided was simple but excellent—roasted lamb with herbs, rice prepared with saffron and almonds, flatbread still warm from the oven, and dates from the finest groves of Medina. The conversation that accompanied the meal ranged from poetry to philosophy to humorous observations about the eccentricities of human nature.

As the night progressed and they shared sherbet flavored with rose water, Abu al-Hasan began to speak more freely about his views on the world. The wine they had consumed with dinner had loosened his tongue, and he found himself expressing opinions he usually kept private.

“You know what I would do if I were Caliph for a single day?” Abu al-Hasan declared, gesturing expansively with his cup. “I would reform the entire administration of this city. Half the officials are corrupt, a quarter are incompetent, and most of the rest are both. The Chief of Police takes bribes from thieves, the Market Inspector sells licenses to cheats, and the Judge of Commercial Disputes has never conducted an honest proceeding in his life.”

His guest listened with apparent fascination as Abu al-Hasan outlined a comprehensive program of governmental reform, complete with specific names of officials who should be dismissed and detailed proposals for improving everything from tax collection to street cleaning.

“Furthermore,” continued Abu al-Hasan, warming to his theme, “if I were Caliph, I would disguise myself and walk among the people to learn their real needs. Too many rulers live in palaces hearing only what their courtiers think they want to hear. How can you govern people whose lives you have never observed?”

“These are wise observations,” said his guest thoughtfully. “But tell me, friend—do you truly believe that power could be wielded so simply? Might there not be complexities invisible to those who have never held authority?”

“Complexities, yes,” replied Abu al-Hasan, “but not impossibilities. Most problems in governance arise from selfishness and laziness, not from inherent difficulties. A ruler who truly cared about justice and had the courage to enforce it could accomplish miracles.”

The conversation continued until both men grew drowsy. Abu al-Hasan provided his guest with comfortable sleeping arrangements in his best room, and they both retired for the night.

What Abu al-Hasan did not know was that his guest was none other than Harun al-Rashid himself, who had adopted the habit of wandering through Baghdad in disguise to observe conditions in his capital and gauge the mood of his subjects. The Caliph had been greatly entertained by Abu al-Hasan’s frank criticisms and innovative suggestions, and as he lay in the darkness, a mischievous idea began to form in his mind.

Before dawn, while Abu al-Hasan slept deeply, the Caliph quietly summoned several of his most trusted servants who had been waiting nearby. Together, they carefully lifted the sleeping Abu al-Hasan from his bed and transported him to the palace, where he was placed in the Caliph’s own chambers and dressed in the finest robes of state.

When Abu al-Hasan awakened, he found himself in surroundings so magnificent that he wondered if he had died and been transported to Paradise. The walls were covered with silk tapestries woven with gold thread, the floors were carpeted with rugs from Persia and Kashmir, and the air was perfumed with incense of the finest sandalwood and musk.

More bewildering still, he discovered that he was wearing the robes and turban of the Caliph himself, and that arranged beside his bed were the traditional symbols of supreme authority—the seal ring, the jeweled sword, and the staff of office.

As he sat up in confusion, a dozen servants entered the chamber and prostrated themselves before him, declaring in unison: “May Allah grant long life to the Commander of the Faithful! How has our lord and master slept?”

Abu al-Hasan stared at them in amazement. “What madness is this? I am Abu al-Hasan, son of a merchant, not the Caliph. You have made some terrible mistake.”

But the servants insisted with apparent sincerity that he was indeed the Caliph, and that he must have suffered some temporary loss of memory. They brought him mirrors to show him his royal robes, documents bearing his seal, and testimonies from guards and officials who claimed to have served him for years.

The Grand Vizier himself arrived and addressed Abu al-Hasan with the elaborate courtesies due to the supreme ruler. “Commander of the Faithful, your loyal subjects await your pleasure. Will you not review the petitions that require your attention and hold court as is your custom?”

Abu al-Hasan, overwhelmed by the consistent testimony of so many people and the evidence of his own senses, began to wonder if he had indeed suffered some form of amnesia. Perhaps he truly was the Caliph and had somehow forgotten his real identity. The alternative—that this was all an elaborate joke or hallucination—seemed even more unlikely than loss of memory.

Deciding to play along until he could understand what was happening, Abu al-Hasan allowed himself to be escorted to the throne room, where hundreds of courtiers, officials, and petitioners waited to conduct the daily business of the empire.

From his position on the throne, Abu al-Hasan looked out over the assembled court and remembered his criticisms of the previous evening. Here was his opportunity to test whether his reforms were as practical as he had claimed.

“Bring before me,” he commanded with growing confidence, “the Chief of Police, the Market Inspector, and the Judge of Commercial Disputes.”

When these officials appeared, Abu al-Hasan addressed them with the same frankness he had shown his mysterious guest: “I have received reports that corruption and incompetence plague your departments. You have today to prove your honesty and efficiency. Those who fail will be stripped of office and punished according to their crimes.”

The court watched in amazement as their supposed Caliph proceeded to conduct the most thorough governmental review in memory. Abu al-Hasan examined records, interviewed complainants, and issued orders with such decisive authority that even experienced officials were impressed.

By midday, he had dismissed three corrupt officials, reorganized two departments, and established new procedures for handling public complaints. His reforms were so sensible and his manner so convincing that the entire court began to buzz with excitement about their transformed ruler.

The Grand Vizier, who was actually in on the Caliph’s scheme, approached the throne and whispered: “Your Majesty, there are certain personal matters requiring your attention. Perhaps you would like to retire to your private chambers for the afternoon?”

Abu al-Hasan agreed, and was escorted to rooms even more luxurious than those where he had awakened. There he found waiting for him a feast that surpassed any meal he had ever imagined—dishes prepared by the finest cooks in the empire, fruits from the imperial gardens, and delicacies imported from distant lands.

As he dined in solitary splendor, Abu al-Hasan reflected on the morning’s events. The power to reform injustices with a single word was intoxicating, but he had also begun to understand some of the complexities his guest had mentioned. Every decision affected dozens of people, every reform created new problems that required additional solutions, and the responsibility for an entire empire was more overwhelming than he had imagined.

That evening, as Abu al-Hasan held court once again, the real Caliph appeared among the courtiers, disguised as a simple merchant seeking an audience. Abu al-Hasan, remembering his guest from the previous night, greeted him warmly.

“Approach, good merchant,” he called. “I remember our conversation about the challenges of governance. Have you come to see whether my reforms prove as effective in practice as they seemed in theory?”

The disguised Caliph smiled. “Indeed, Your Majesty. I have observed your innovations with great interest. But I wonder—do you find the reality of power different from your expectations?”

Abu al-Hasan considered the question carefully. “Friend, power is more complex than I imagined, but also more rewarding. The ability to correct injustices is worth any amount of difficulty. However, I confess that the isolation of supreme authority is more burdensome than I anticipated. A ruler must make decisions that affect thousands of lives, yet he often has no one with whom he can discuss his doubts and uncertainties.”

“Wise words,” replied the Caliph. “And what have you learned about the nature of identity? Are you truly the same man who dined with a stranger last night, or has assuming the role of Caliph changed your fundamental nature?”

This question struck Abu al-Hasan with sudden force. Throughout the day, he had indeed felt himself becoming different—more confident, more decisive, more aware of the weight of responsibility. Yet underneath the royal robes and courtly ceremonies, he sensed that his essential self remained unchanged.

“I believe,” he said slowly, “that external circumstances can reveal aspects of our character that remain hidden in ordinary life, but they cannot create qualities that were not already present. Today I have been more authoritative than ever before, but I think the capacity for authority was always within me, waiting for the proper occasion to emerge.”

The Caliph nodded approvingly. “You have learned much in a single day, friend Abu al-Hasan.”

“Abu al-Hasan?” repeated the man on the throne in sudden confusion. “How do you know that name? I am the Caliph Harun al-Rashid!”

“Are you indeed?” smiled the stranger. “Look around you, my friend. Look carefully at where you are and who you are.”

As Abu al-Hasan looked, the magnificent throne room began to waver like a mirage. The courtiers and guards faded away like smoke, and the golden walls dissolved into the familiar surroundings of his own modest home. He found himself sitting in his usual chair, wearing his ordinary clothes, with his mysterious guest of the previous evening sitting across from him, smiling with evident amusement.

“What sorcery is this?” gasped Abu al-Hasan. “Was I truly Caliph today, or have I been dreaming?”

“You have been both dreaming and awake,” replied his guest, removing his merchant’s disguise to reveal the true robes and insignia of the Caliph. “I am Harun al-Rashid, and you have spent this day ruling my empire while I observed your methods and listened to your wisdom.”

Abu al-Hasan stared in amazement as the full truth dawned upon him. “Then everything I experienced was real? I truly held the power of the Caliphate?”

“Real in every sense that matters,” confirmed Harun al-Rashid. “Your reforms have been implemented, your dismissed officials have been replaced, and your new procedures are already improving the administration of Baghdad. But more importantly, you have proven that wisdom and justice are not limited to those born to power—they can emerge from any man who has the courage to act upon his convictions.”

The Caliph paused, then continued with a more serious expression: “Abu al-Hasan, your experience today was intended partly as entertainment, but it has revealed qualities that should not be wasted. I offer you a permanent position in my administration—not as a powerless courtier, but as an advisor whose counsel will be sought on matters of real importance.”

Abu al-Hasan, still overwhelmed by the day’s revelations, considered this offer carefully. “Your Majesty, I am honored beyond measure. But I must ask—would I be expected to abandon my habit of speaking frankly about problems I observe?”

“On the contrary,” laughed the Caliph, “that is precisely why I want you in my service. A ruler surrounded by flatterers is like a man trying to navigate by a broken compass. I need advisors who will tell me the truth, even when the truth is uncomfortable.”

From that day forward, Abu al-Hasan served as one of the Caliph’s most trusted counselors, and their friendship became legendary throughout the Islamic world. The reforms he had implemented during his single day as Caliph proved so successful that many of his innovations became permanent features of Baghdad’s government.

More significantly, the experience had taught both men valuable lessons about the nature of power and identity. The Caliph learned that wisdom could be found in unexpected places, and that the perspectives of ordinary citizens were essential for effective governance. Abu al-Hasan discovered that his criticisms of authority had been valid not because power was inherently corrupting, but because those who wielded it often lacked the will to use it responsibly.

The story of the Sleeper and the Waker spread throughout the empire, inspiring other rulers to seek counsel from unlikely sources and encouraging common citizens to believe that their insights might contribute to the greater good. Coffee house storytellers would recount the tale to illustrate that the difference between ruler and subject is often less about inherent nobility than about opportunity and circumstance.

In his later years, when Abu al-Hasan had become one of the most respected figures in the Caliph’s court, he would often reflect on that extraordinary day when he awoke to find himself in control of an empire. The experience had taught him that true authority comes not from titles or ceremonies, but from the willingness to take responsibility for the welfare of others and the courage to act upon one’s convictions regardless of personal cost.

And whenever young men came to him seeking advice about achieving success and recognition, Abu al-Hasan would tell them: “Do not wait for others to grant you the authority to do good. Begin by ruling yourself with justice and wisdom, and you may find that the world will eventually recognize the sovereignty you have already claimed over your own character and actions.”

Thus ends the tale of Abu al-Hasan, the Sleeper and the Waker, whose extraordinary adventure reminds us that the capacity for greatness lies dormant within ordinary people, waiting only for the proper circumstances to awaken it, and that the truest test of character is not how we behave when others are watching, but how we conduct ourselves when we believe no one will ever know.