Turning 30, Turning Down the Noise: A Conversation About Speed, Solitude, and What We Actually Control

The call begins the way many January calls begin: with teasing, a little disbelief, and that ceremonial moment where someone’s age becomes a group event.

Ritesh isn’t “twenty-something” anymore. He’s 30 now—officially “mature,” officially “downhill,” officially (according to the folklore) halfway through life. The joke lands, but underneath it you can already feel the real question warming up in the background: What changes when a number changes? Not your face. Not your job. Not the train you take. But something in the way you hold time.

A first birthday as a married man

Ritesh describes his birthday in the practical, tender way he often tells stories: concrete details first, feelings tucked inside the details.

There’s a cake—a surprise cake—bought without his knowledge. There’s no room decoration, because he would have noticed (and the surprise would have collapsed). There’s a small gift, a photo frame—“nothing,” he says, but it’s clearly not nothing. There’s food, especially sweets, because his wife loves cooking and he loves what she makes. And there’s a simple one-day trip the next morning, not expensive, not dramatic—just a choice to go somewhere together and make the day feel different.

Friends don’t come over. Two nearby friends are away for New Year. So the celebration becomes more intimate by default: two people, home, a rooftop at midnight, a shared chocolate, half an hour of talking, then sleep. Bangalore outside is loud—crackers, shouting, drunk driving, the whole city turning into a living firework—but inside their little unit, the celebration is quiet on purpose.

That contrast—public chaos, private calm—sets up the deeper theme of the conversation: how you build slowness when the world runs fast.

Ritesh’s voice sits naturally in that “two-sides” space: he doesn’t romanticize anything, and he doesn’t dismiss it either. He can appreciate the joy of togetherness and name the loneliness that comes when your wife is new to the city and waiting for you to come home. That balanced, reflective style—story-first, nuance-heavy—is exactly how he tends to process life.

New Year’s resolutions (and the ones people don’t admit)

When the conversation turns to resolutions, Ritesh does something very “30”: he makes it less about grand milestones and more about things that actually repeat every day.

• Health: he feels himself getting “bulky,” partly thanks to good home cooking.
• Helping at home: he admits he doesn’t do much, not even a “helping hand,” and he feels he should change that.
• Positivity: being happier in small things.
• Focus: less scattered thinking, more direct attention to what he can control.

There’s also a quiet thread of regret from the previous year: he tried to move into product, and it didn’t happen. But his tone isn’t bitter—more like: I learned something, and now I’m adjusting. That “hurt → understanding → recalibration” arc is a familiar Ritesh rhythm.

Ismar’s response is almost the opposite in shape, but not in sincerity.

He says he has no resolutions—everything will be the same—except one hope: that he and his mother stay healthy. It’s simple, almost austere. And then he does what Ismar often does: he shifts from the surface topic to an observation, like a person who watches human behavior the way other people watch weather.

He notes the changes around Ritesh: the coming first wedding anniversary, the shorter haircut, the moustache. It’s affectionate, but also analytical—the way Ismar is affectionate: by noticing.

Frank’s resolution: peace of mind (and the weight behind it)

Frank admits his New Year’s resolution is written “in stone” in a shared work document: peace of mind. He wants to end the year calmer than he begins it. And the reason is work—Brida isn’t growing, revenue isn’t growing, and the old idea of “selling community” isn’t working.

Ismar responds with gentle pressure: Are you offering what people actually want? Maybe adapt—keep part of your vision, but meet people halfway.

Frank’s reply is blunt and honest: the problem is complex, but the bottom line is that “community thinking does not work” as a product. Something else is needed.

And then Ismar—practical, ironic, and quietly brilliant—offers a story from the Netherlands: the airport toilets always dirty, signs don’t work, so someone draws a small fly inside the urinal. The fly becomes a target. Suddenly behavior changes.

Ismar’s point lands cleanly: the hard part is finding the “fly”—the small design shift that changes people’s behavior without lecturing them.

That’s classic Ismar: skeptical of human nature, amused by behavioral hacks, and always searching for the mechanism underneath the mess.

When life feels rushed

The group moves from resolutions into something more existential: slowing down.

Frank asks Ismar to remember a period when life felt rushed. Ismar asks for clarification—“What does felt to rush mean?”—and once it’s explained, he opens a window into his thirties.

He describes a life stacked with obligations: working, studying, pushing for “improvement,” and—this matters—being more materially ambitious than he is now. He lived 100km from São Paulo and traveled in weekly for a course while managing his dental office. He had complicated relationships, including one with a partner who had children. He worked in the Brazilian Air Force. Some days, when he went to São Paulo, he slept only a few hours. At one point he was also teaching in a school.

It’s not told dramatically; it’s told almost like a report: life was crazy, therefore stress was constant.

That documentary-style honesty—direct, slightly melancholic, shaped by a non-native English flow—is exactly how Ismar speaks when he’s remembering something difficult: he doesn’t perform emotion, he lays out facts and lets the facts carry it.

Ritesh’s version of “rush” is more internal than external.

He talks about early career comparison—watching people move ahead and feeling stuck. He describes the mental loop: thinking and not doing, then changing jobs, then feeling stability, then the same thought returning: is it okay to stay somewhere too long?

Now the rush is mixed with responsibility—not only career pressure but also growing care for his parents. He mentions checking on health, asking about medicine, and the “diabetic explosion” in India. He doesn’t call his parents old—only 50—but the shift is clear: my attention is moving from big abstract topics toward the people closest to me.

And then he says something that almost becomes the thesis of his new decade:

Things will not turn as planned. So be in present.

That sentence is not motivational-poster optimism. It’s a coping strategy. It’s him deciding where to place his limited energy.

Does time speed up as we age?

Frank asks whether time feels faster with age—how it jumps from 2024 to the end of 2025 like someone skipped pages.

Ismar answers in a way that’s both stark and revealing: he recently asked a cousin, “What’s the meaning of life?” Then he offers his own view: we’re born, we grow, we work, and in certain aspects life becomes “very insignificant.” He asks: What did I do for humanity? Maybe almost nothing.

Frank counters with warmth: you contribute in your own way. Ismar concedes, but minimizes: “very small.”

There’s no melodrama, but the emotional temperature drops. This is the quiet fatigue that sits under Ismar’s realism: not bitterness, but resignation, with a thin thread of moral self-questioning still alive.

Campo Grande and Bangalore: where speed dominates

Frank then grounds the discussion: describe a normal day in your city—where speed dominates, where you slow down.

Ismar (Campo Grande) focuses on safety and vigilance. Downtown requires “smart” awareness—risk of robbery, reckless drivers, pedestrians and drivers both ignoring rules. In the morning, his neighborhood is less concerning; the main thing is traffic. The busy peaks are familiar: commuters between 7:00 and 8:30, and heavier traffic at the end of the day.

It’s a picture of a city where “rush” isn’t only time pressure—it’s risk management.

Ritesh (Bangalore) paints a different kind of pressure: noise and density everywhere. He wakes early and goes to the metro: crowded, usually no seat, a 18–20 minute ride standing. He notices people running to exit first, rushing to tap cards, rushing because some workplaces mark lateness by the minute.

And here, Ritesh reveals a small act of resistance: he enjoys that moment of not rushing. He feels happy that his own job isn’t strict like that.

Outside the apartment, there’s noise: traffic, people, constant movement. Even parks are noisy. Office is calmer, but it comes with its own “noise”—work pressure. Evening repeats the pattern: rushing home, traffic, then home as relief.

And yet he says something heavier: Bangalore “is sucking your life” if you think too much about it. People cope with alcohol, smoking, outings—ways to escape discomfort—because general peace is missing.

Again, he holds two truths at once: Bangalore has nice weather and air (by Indian standards), but it also carries a mental cost.

Marriage as a new kind of “rush”

Frank asks how Ritesh’s wife is adapting after about three months.

Ritesh explains that she feels lonely because she’s not working yet and is searching for a job. She calls him to come home early. So now his day gains a new pressure: not office pressure, but relationship responsibility. He says plainly: previously he could go home whenever; now he rushes home to be with her so she won’t feel alone.

She copes by calling relatives, cooking, listening to music, reading. When he’s home—even if they’re not talking—she feels happier just because he’s present.

There are other couples nearby; they meet sometimes, cook, play Uno, visit places. But not every week—there’s still “boundary,” and friendships are new. Ritesh observes that big cities make people lonely even when they live close together: proximity doesn’t equal belonging.

It’s an intimate view of early married life in a new city: love expressed not through romance speeches, but through return time, presence, and the quiet promise that you’ll come back.

The village question: could you live in silence?

Frank shifts the scene to rural France. He describes his village: about 750 people, so quiet you can hear a pin drop. Snow outside. Minus six. Rural calm.

Could Ismar live there?

Ismar says yes, easily. He was raised on a farm until eight. He doesn’t drink, isn’t sociable, doesn’t seek nightlife. He’s lived in Campo Grande five years and has attended only a few parties. Loneliness wouldn’t bother him; he considers himself solitary.

That answer matches what’s in his broader profile: a man who often lives in solitary scenarios—by nature and by experience—without romanticizing it.

Could Ritesh live there?

He says maybe, especially if essentials exist—good hospitals, accessibility. He grew up in a village of about 5,600 people, but it still felt crowded because the space is small and houses are close. In India, rural life often pushes people to cities due to healthcare and opportunities. But in a well-equipped quiet place, he imagines focusing on reading and studies. He’s not highly social either, and he notices that everywhere in India is getting more crowded.

It’s telling: both men, from very different cultures, answer the village question with an unexpected alignment. Their versions of “peace” are not loud.

Frank’s rural France: solitude, outsiders, and a bay leaf tree

Frank then tells the story behind his own village life—and it’s not the postcard version.

He explains that they’re not integrated. They’re outsiders. Local families are large, self-contained; they “don’t need anybody.” There are clubs and associations, but they don’t fit his background. He taught village kids in summer programs, but even then he felt like a useful outsider rather than someone who belongs.

Then comes the story that makes everyone pause: Frank planted a bay leaf tree. It grew tall—three meters. While he was away, the head of the parish council cut it down without asking, claiming it might affect foundations. Frank was furious: they could have discussed it; they could have found a solution. But the man didn’t care—if it was in the way, it would be removed.

To Ismar, this is shocking—almost unbelievable—and he says it feels like something that might happen in Brazil, but not in France.

Frank adds more context: the landlord is the Catholic parish council. The rent funds church renovation. The church is barely used. Frank once blocked a rent increase by pointing to insulation laws: the house can’t be re-rented without major upgrades. The result is a strained coexistence: courtesy, reconnaissance, and a contractual relationship rather than community warmth.

It’s a powerful counterpoint to the earlier fantasy of “quiet village life.” Silence can be peaceful, but it can also be isolating. And being surrounded by people who have no need for you can feel like a different kind of loneliness than the loneliness of a city crowd.

Technology: pressure, delusion, and the loop you know is fake

As the conversation circles back to “presence,” Frank asks Ritesh about technology: does it slow you down or pressure you?

Ritesh answers with modern clarity: social media creates delusion. It pulls you away from reality, makes you think about things that don’t matter, and builds depression through comparison. Even when you know the images are curated—when you tell yourself “it’s fake”—you still become part of the loop.

He admits his wife tells him he uses his phone too much. He tries to analyze and reduce it, but it’s now part of life.

And then he describes a feeling that lands quietly but deeply: the city builds pressure on your mind and body; home becomes the only place you feel free. That sense of “general peace” is what’s missing.

This is the conversation’s central tension in one line: the world has more connection than ever, but less peace than we expected.

A last observation: “half your life is gone” (maybe not)

At the end, Ismar makes one last observation: Ritesh turned 30 and said he’s halfway through life—but Frank’s mother is 86, and Ismar’s mother is 88. Maybe 30 isn’t the middle. Maybe it’s only the end of the introduction.

Frank jokes that when Ritesh reaches his eighties, they won’t be around. Everyone laughs, and the call closes with the simple blessing people mean most in January: have a nice week, see you next Monday, have a great 2026.

What this conversation really shows

Under the birthday teasing and the weather talk, this conversation is about control:

• You can’t control the noise of Bangalore, but you can control whether you rush.
• You can’t control Campo Grande’s risks, but you can control how alert you move through it.
• You can’t control social media’s illusion, but you can control how much of your attention it gets.
• You can’t always control community—whether in a city or a village—but you can control your expectations, your boundaries, and the “fly in the urinal” moments that change behavior through design rather than force.

Ismar brings the realism of someone who has lived stress and come out the other side less ambitious, more focused on health and meaning—and who is honest enough to question whether his life mattered, even while still showing up for others.

Ritesh brings the evolving mindset of a younger man stepping into marriage and responsibility—less interested now in politics-as-consumption, more interested in self-management, family wellbeing, and the small daily choices that keep the mind calm.

And Frank—caught between building something new and wanting peace of mind—sits in the middle, listening for the “fly”: the one small shift that could make people aim differently.

That’s the January truth none of them says directly, but all of them circle:

Slowing down isn’t a lifestyle. It’s a strategy.