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Its 4 PM. The sky is preparing to shut shop for the day. I quietly watch as kids skip stones into the Mantam river. A pick-up truck arrives, and I clamber onto the back. A fellow passenger tells me to hold on tight, or I’ll get thrown off. I smile sheepishly, clutch on for dear life for the next 10 minutes until I’m greeted by the ever-smiling Karma Anum, my host for the next few days. Anum is the Lepcha word for an older brother. It is another Valentine’s day. I have always chosen this day to keep to myself, away from a world that’s too red and white, filled with too many hearts and kisses. I choose to escape to this one place I’ve heard of, where oranges grow in groves, the Kanchenjungha plays hide and seek through the day, a land of hot springs and waterfalls, where people worship nature. I choose Tingvong in upper Dzongu on Valentine’s for one reason: Simplicity to me is the purest form of love there is. Dzongu is the official reserve of the Lepcha tribe, the original inhabitants of Sikkim, India. The little cluster of villages in North Sikkim, with a total of 1300 odd-people, overlooks the Kanchenjunga, and the mountain is worshipped as a formidable God. The Lepcha people pray to the Gods of nature for health, peace, and bounty. Life in a Lepcha household is as simple as it gets: growing your own food, rearing livestock, caring for stray pups and kittens, and live peacefully at one with the mountains. Karma Anum’s homestay stands in the middle of a clearing, flanked by the Kanchenjunga on one side, and avocado and orange trees in full bloom on the other. The yard also has a herb and vegetable patch, enough space to pitch 2 tents, a few wooden benches and a bonfire pit. The clearing is so quiet, I can almost hear Tingvong’s heartbeat. After a hearty snack of buckwheat fritters and black tea, loaded with fresh ginger and black pepper, I check my phone. There’s no mobile network anywhere in the house. I’m very pleased, but I need to call home nonetheless. I ask Anum about this, and he pipes up like a child. He asks me in Nepali, “Jum hami?” (Let’s go?) I check my pockets for loose cash and run along. We walk for 300 odd meters and get to a big rock facing the Kanchenjungha. Anum asks me to check my phone. I’m intrigued. I scramble up the rock, switch on my mobile data, and voila! Lovingly monikered “4G rock” by locals, this is the only place in all of Tingvong, where one can browse the internet or make calls. The mountain fades away from my psyche until the Instagram stories are posted, and parents and friends have been informed that I’m indeed still alive. By the time I turn back to the valley, the Kanchenjungha has made itself scarce behind a melee of clouds. The breeze is soft against my cheek, and I turn on Spotify for a little bit of music before darkness sets in. Just as I’m about to plug in my earphones, I hear a frail voice calling out, “Bainee!”, meaning “ little sister” in Nepali. I turn and see a wizened face smiling down at me. An old farmer is holding out 4 tiny oranges in his palm. The toothy grin has deepened the lines in his face, but he looks as excited as a child. He asks me to take the oranges, and I’m overcome with joy and gratitude. A thought pops into my head, and I immediately brush it away. I must not offer him money. I outstretch my palm and accept the gift, bow and say ‘Dhanyawad’ and smile brightly as he walks away. I have decided to ditch the earphones. I dig into what is probably the sweetest orange I’ve ever eaten, put some music on, hum along, and wipe away a few happy tears. I know in my bones, my Valentines’ is going to turn out better than reds and whites, hearts and kisses.