The Tale of the Ruined Man who became Rich Again through a Dream

In the great city of Baghdad, during the golden age of the caliphs, there lived a man whose fortune had turned as bitter as winter wind. Once wealthy beyond measure, with coffers full of gold and warehouses brimming with precious goods, he had lost everything through misfortune and the cruel turns of fate. His name was Abu Yusuf, and where once silk robes had adorned his frame, now threadbare cloth barely covered his shoulders.

Abu Yusuf sat in the ruins of what had once been his magnificent home, its marble floors cracked, its fountains dry, its gardens withered to dust. The walls that once echoed with laughter and the conversations of honored guests now stood silent, save for the occasional scurrying of mice seeking crumbs that no longer existed.

“O Allah,” he whispered, his voice echoing in the empty chambers, “how far I have fallen. From abundance to nothing, from respect to shame. What sin have I committed that You have taken everything from me?”

As the months passed, Abu Yusuf’s situation grew ever more desperate. He sold his remaining possessions one by one—first the expensive carpets, then the ornate lamps, finally even his wife’s jewelry. Each sale brought only temporary relief, like drops of water to a man dying of thirst in the desert.

One evening, as hunger gnawed at his belly and despair weighed heavy on his heart, Abu Yusuf lay down on a thin mat in what had once been his grand reception hall. Sleep came fitfully, bringing with it a dream more vivid than any he had ever experienced.

In this dream, a figure approached him—a man dressed in robes of pure white light, his face serene and wise beyond mortal years. The mysterious figure spoke with a voice like gentle thunder: “Abu Yusuf, your fortune awaits you in Isfahan. Go to the great bridge that spans the Zayandeh River, and there you shall find what you seek.”

Abu Yusuf awoke with a start, his heart pounding like the drums of a wedding procession. The dream had been so real, so vivid, that he could still smell the roses that had perfumed the air around the luminous stranger.

“Isfahan,” he murmured, touching his chest where his heart still raced. “But how can I journey to Isfahan when I have not even the price of bread?”

Yet the dream haunted him through the following days. Each night it returned with the same clarity, the same message, the same mysterious figure pointing toward the distant Persian city. Finally, after a week of such visions, Abu Yusuf made his decision.

“If this is truly a sign from Allah,” he declared, “then I shall trust in His providence.”

He gathered what little remained of his possessions—a worn cloak, a staff, and a small pouch containing his last few copper coins—and set out on the long journey to Isfahan. The road was harsh and unforgiving. He walked through scorching deserts where the sun beat down like a merciless hammer, and through mountain passes where cold winds cut through his thin garments like knives.

For weeks he traveled, begging for food when his coins ran out, sleeping under the stars, drinking from streams and wells along the way. Other travelers sometimes took pity on him, sharing their bread or offering him a place by their fire. Through it all, the memory of the dream sustained him, like a lantern guiding him through the darkness.

At last, after a journey that had tested every fiber of his being, Abu Yusuf reached the great city of Isfahan. The sight of its magnificent minarets and sprawling bazaars filled him with wonder, but also with uncertainty. The city was vast—how would he find the specific bridge mentioned in his dream?

He wandered through the streets, asking merchants and passersby about bridges, until finally an old spice seller pointed him toward the river. “The great bridge you seek lies that way, traveler. It is the pride of our city, spanning the Zayandeh River like a magnificent stone rainbow.”

With renewed hope, Abu Yusuf made his way to the bridge. When he saw it, his breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had seen in his dream—a marvel of architecture with multiple arches, its stones worn smooth by countless years of wind and rain.

But as he stood upon the bridge, looking about expectantly, nothing happened. No treasure revealed itself, no mysterious figure appeared. Hours passed as he walked back and forth across the span, examining every stone, every crevice, growing more bewildered with each passing moment.

Night fell, and still he remained on the bridge, unwilling to abandon his vigil. As darkness deepened, he noticed that the bridge was not deserted—guards patrolled it regularly, watching for thieves and vagabonds.

As the night wore on, Abu Yusuf’s behavior aroused the suspicion of the guards. A man pacing back and forth on a bridge through the night, examining its structure closely, could only be planning some mischief.

“You there!” called out the captain of the guards, a stern man with a carefully groomed beard and eyes sharp as a falcon’s. “What business do you have on this bridge at such an hour?”

Abu Yusuf turned, his heart sinking as he saw the guards approaching with their hands on their sword hilts. “I… I am searching for something,” he replied truthfully, though he knew how foolish it must sound.

“Searching for something to steal, no doubt,” growled the captain. “We’ve had enough of your kind prowling about our city. Explain yourself, or face the magistrate’s justice.”

Desperate and seeing no alternative, Abu Yusuf decided to tell the truth, no matter how incredible it might sound. “Honored captain, I know my words will seem like the ravings of a madman, but I have traveled all the way from Baghdad because of a dream. In this dream, a holy man told me I would find my fortune on this very bridge.”

The guards burst into laughter, their mirth echoing across the water below. The captain shook his head in amazement. “A dream? You traveled hundreds of miles because of a dream? By Allah, I have never heard such foolishness!”

But then the captain’s expression grew thoughtful, and a strange smile played about his lips. “You know, stranger, you are not the only fool to be guided by dreams. I myself have had a recurring dream for the past month—always the same vision, always as clear as day.”

“What dream is that, captain?” Abu Yusuf asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I dream of a house in Baghdad—a ruined house with a cracked marble floor and a dried fountain. In the garden behind this house, beneath an old pomegranate tree near the eastern wall, lies a treasure beyond imagining. But do you think I am fool enough to journey to Baghdad and dig up someone else’s garden based on a mere dream?”

Abu Yusuf’s legs nearly gave way beneath him. The house the captain described was his own—every detail perfect, down to the location of the pomegranate tree that he himself had planted as a young man.

“No, my friend,” continued the captain, still chuckling, “dreams are but the wanderings of a sleeping mind. A wise man pays them no heed. Now, take my advice and return to Baghdad before you waste what little you have left chasing phantoms.”

With trembling hands, Abu Yusuf thanked the captain and his guards. As dawn broke over Isfahan, he began his long journey home, his heart now light with hope instead of heavy with despair. The very treasure he had sought in distant lands lay waiting in his own backyard.

The journey back to Baghdad seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Though his feet were sore and his body weary, his spirit soared like an eagle riding the wind. He thought of the wisdom hidden in the guard captain’s words—sometimes what we seek far away has been close to us all along.

When he finally reached his ruined home, Abu Yusuf wasted no time. He found an old shovel among the remnants of his possessions and made his way to the garden. There stood the pomegranate tree, exactly as the captain had described, its branches barren but its roots still strong.

At the base of the tree, near the eastern wall just as the dream had indicated, Abu Yusuf began to dig. The earth was hard and resistant, baked by years of sun and neglect, but he persevered. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, his shovel struck something solid.

His heart pounding with excitement, he cleared away the dirt to reveal an ancient chest, its brass fittings green with age but still intact. With trembling hands, he lifted the heavy lid.

Inside lay a treasure that exceeded even his former wealth—gold coins bearing the marks of ancient dynasties, precious gems that sparkled like captured starlight, and scrolls that proved to be deeds to valuable properties throughout the empire. At the very bottom of the chest lay a parchment written in an elegant hand, bearing his grandfather’s seal.

The letter explained that the chest contained the accumulated wealth of seven generations of his family, hidden away for times of great need. “To my descendants,” the letter read, “should you find yourselves in dire straits, know that your forefathers’ love and providence has prepared this blessing for you. But remember—true wealth lies not in gold and silver, but in faith, family, and the favor of Allah.”

Abu Yusuf fell to his knees beside the treasure, tears streaming down his weathered cheeks. “Praise be to Allah,” he whispered, “who guides us even when we cannot see the path, who provides for us in ways beyond our understanding.”

From that day forward, Abu Yusuf’s fortune was restored beyond measure. He rebuilt his house more magnificently than before, but he also remembered the lessons of his trials. He established funds for the poor, built wells for travelers, and never turned away anyone who came to his door seeking help.

And whenever anyone asked him about the source of his renewed wealth, he would smile and tell them the story of two dreams—his own, which led him far from home, and that of a stranger, which brought him back to find what had been waiting all along.

“Sometimes,” he would say, “Allah guides us on long journeys not to find what lies at the destination, but to discover the value of what we left behind. The greatest treasures are often buried not in distant lands, but in the soil of our own hearts and homes.”

Thus Abu Yusuf learned that divine providence works in mysterious ways, and that faith—even when tested by hardship and doubt—can lead us to blessings beyond our imagination. His story became legend in Baghdad, inspiring countless others to trust in their dreams while remembering that home itself can be the greatest treasure of all.