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It is merely in the past few seasons that women in the South Asian region have gained recognition as professional cricket players. Over many years, they endured ridicule, disapproval, exclusion – even the risk of violence – to pursue their passion. Now, India is hosting a global tournament with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the home nation's players could emerge as beloved icons if they secure their maiden tournament victory.

It would, therefore, be a travesty if the upcoming discussion centered around their male counterparts. And yet, when India confront Pakistan on Sunday, parallels are inevitable. Not because the home side are highly favoured to win, but because they are not expected to shake hands with their rivals. Handshakegate, if we must call it that, will have a another chapter.

If you missed the initial incident, it took place at the end of the male team's group stage game between India and Pakistan at the Asia Cup last month when the India captain, Suryakumar Yadav, and his team hurried off the field to evade the usual friendly post-match ritual. A couple of similar follow-ups occurred in the Super4 match and the championship game, climaxing in a long-delayed award ceremony where the title winners refused to receive the trophy from the Pakistan Cricket Board's head, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed humorous if it weren't so tragic.

Those following the female cricket World Cup might well have anticipated, and even pictured, a alternative conduct on Sunday. Women's sport is supposed to provide a new blueprint for the industry and an alternative to toxic traditions. The image of Harmanpreet Kaur's players offering the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her squad would have sent a strong message in an ever more polarized world.

Such an act could have acknowledged the mutually adverse circumstances they have conquered and provided a symbolic reminder that politics are temporary compared with the connection of women's unity. It would certainly have earned a place alongside the other good news story at this tournament: the exiled Afghanistan cricketers welcomed as observers, being reintegrated into the game four years after the Taliban forced them to flee their country.

Rather, we've encountered the hard limits of the sporting sisterhood. This comes as no surprise. India's men's players are huge stars in their country, worshipped like gods, treated like royalty. They possess all the benefits and power that comes with stardom and wealth. If Yadav and his side are unable to defy the diktats of an authoritarian leader, what hope do the women have, whose improved position is only recently attained?

Maybe it's even more surprising that we're continuing to discuss about a handshake. The Asia Cup furore prompted much analysis of that particular sporting ritual, not least because it is viewed as the definitive symbol of fair play. But Yadav's snub was much less important than what he stated immediately after the first game.

Skipper Yadav considered the winners' podium the "perfect occasion" to devote his team's victory to the military personnel who had participated in India's strikes on Pakistan in May, referred to as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they will motivate us all," Yadav told the post-game reporter, "and we give them more reasons in the field whenever we have the chance to bring them joy."

This reflects the current reality: a real-time discussion by a sporting leader publicly praising a military assault in which dozens died. Two years ago, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja was unable to display a single humanitarian message approved by the ICC, including the dove logo – a literal sign of harmony – on his bat. Yadav was eventually penalized 30% of his game earnings for the remarks. He was not the sole individual disciplined. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who mimicked plane crashes and made "six-zero" gestures to the crowd in the Super4 match – also referencing the conflict – received the same punishment.

This isn't a matter of failing to honor your opponents – this is sport appropriated as nationalistic propaganda. It's pointless to be morally outraged by a missing handshake when that's merely a minor plot development in the story of two countries actively using cricket as a political lever and instrument of proxy war. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi clearly stated this with his post-final tweet ("Operation Sindoor on the games field. Outcome is the same – India wins!"). Naqvi, on his side, blares that sport and politics must remain separate, while double-stacking roles as a government minister and head of the PCB, and publicly tagging the Indian leader about his country's "embarrassing losses" on the war front.

The takeaway from this situation is not about the sport, or India, or Pakistan, in separation. It's a warning that the concept of ping pong diplomacy is finished, for the time being. The same sport that was used to foster connections between the nations 20 years ago is now being utilized to heighten hostilities between them by people who know exactly what they're doing, and massive followings who are active supporters.

Polarisation is affecting every realm of public life and as the most prominent of the international cultural influences, athletics is always susceptible: it's a type of entertainment that directly encourages you to choose a team. Many who consider India's actions towards Pakistan aggressive will nonetheless champion a Ukrainian tennis player's right to refuse to greet a Russian competitor on the court.

If you're still kidding yourself that the athletic field is a magical safe space that unites countries, review the golf tournament recap. The conduct of the New York crowds was the "perfect tribute" of a leader who enjoys the sport who openly incites animosity against his opponents. We observed not just the erosion of the typical sporting principles of fairness and mutual respect, but the speed at which this might be accepted and tacitly approved when athletes – like US captain Keegan Bradley – refuse to recognise and sanction it.

A post-game greeting is meant to represent that, at the end of every competition, no matter how intense or heated, the competitors are putting off their pretend enmity and recognizing their shared human bond. Should the rivalry is genuine – if it requires its players emerge in vocal support of their respective militaries – then what is the purpose with the sporting field at all? You might as well put on the fatigues immediately.