In an India jostling between progress and pain, a lone man walks—sandals worn thin by distance, heart worn raw by rage. His name is Anil Chauhan by profession, a navigation officer; by fate, a grieving widower; and by conviction, a crusader. He walks not for medals, nor for recognition, but for a cause: capital punishment for rapists. Step by step, he marches for justice, for change, for a future where his two young daughters, motherless, just 11 and 9, can grow up in a country that doesn’t fear for their safety.
Their journey—equal parts protest, pilgrimage, and plea—began in 2023 in Daman and Diu. On Wednesday, they march through Shantipur, Nadia, in the blistering heat of West Bengal. Their goal? Nothing less than a revolution: a rape-free India.
Anil isn’t just clocking kilometers. He’s attempting to shake the very conscience of the nation. His demand is unequivocal: “Rapists must be hanged. Only then will this country be safe for girls.”
He doesn’t mince words. He doesn’t seek half-measures. “This land is beautiful,” he says, gesturing to the road stretching out like a ribbon of hope. “But it’s cursed for women. Every day, there’s another atrocity. Another girl whose dreams are murdered. And then the courts drag on for years. Where is the justice in that?” Anil asked.
This father doesn’t carry placards. He carries pain. And his two daughters, who carry hope.
These two girls are not just passengers in their father’s protest. They are its heartbeat. While their feet blister, their minds bloom—thanks to online schooling they continue on the road. Their school is the journey; their classroom, wherever the sky stretches wide. “There’s been no disruption in their education,” Anil assures, adding, “because their future must remain intact, no matter what.”
He speaks of their dreams with a protective fire in his eyes. “One wants to be a doctor, the other a pilot. Why should a monster with no conscience threaten that?” again asked Anil.
No fear, no frills
Their daily routine is a discipline forged by willpower and necessity. In West Bengal’s scorching heat, Anil begins his walk at 4 a.m., covers ground till noon, rests and resumes again till 4 a.m.—clocking nearly 25 kilometers a day. No luxury hotels. No campaign funds. Their nights are spent in temples, dharamshalas or even petrol pump shelters.
Yet, they have rarely walked alone. Bengal, he says, has embraced them. “In 90 per cent of cases, we don’t spend a single rupee. Strangers feed us, shelter us, walk beside us and listen. That keeps us going,” Anil said.
Anil isn’t here for applause. He walks in defiance of fear. He walks because silence kills. He walks because he cannot rest until the streets are safe enough for his daughters to walk alone.
He is not a politician, a preacher or a performer. He is a father—and that, it turns out, is the fiercest kind of activist.
As he puts one foot in front of the other, thousands follow in spirit, stirred by the quiet courage of a man who chose not to wait for change—but to become it.
Anil thinks: This is not just a journey. It’s a statement etched into the dust of India’s highways. A father’s long walk home—not to a house, but to a future where no girl lives in fear.
