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It is merely in the past few seasons that women in the South Asian region have been acknowledged as serious cricketers. For generations, they faced scorn, censure, exclusion – even the risk of physical harm – to follow their love for the game. Currently, India is staging a global tournament with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the host country's players could emerge as beloved icons if they secure their maiden tournament victory.

This would, then, be a great injustice if this weekend's talk centered around their men's teams. And yet, when India face Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are unavoidable. Not because the host team are highly favoured to triumph, but because they are not expected to shake hands with their opposition. The handshake controversy, if we must call it that, will have a another chapter.

If you missed the original drama, it took place at the end of the men's group match between India and Pakistan at the Asia Cup last month when the India skipper, Suryakumar Yadav, and his squad hurried off the field to avoid the usual friendly post-match ritual. Two similar follow-ups transpired in the Super4 match and the championship game, culminating in a protracted presentation ceremony where the new champions refused to receive the cup from the Pakistan Cricket Board's head, Mohsin Naqvi. It would have been humorous if it hadn't been so distressing.

Observers of the women's 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 team members offering the hand of camaraderie to Fatima Sana and her squad would have sent a strong message in an increasingly divided world.

It might have acknowledged the mutually adverse environment they have overcome and provided a meaningful gesture that political issues are fleeting compared with the connection of female solidarity. It would certainly have deserved a spot alongside the additional good news story at this competition: the displaced Afghanistan cricketers welcomed as guests, being reintegrated into the game four years after the Taliban forced them to flee their homes.

Instead, we've collided with the hard limits of the sporting sisterhood. No one is shocked. India's male cricketers are huge stars in their homeland, idolized like deities, treated like royalty. They enjoy all the benefits and power that comes with fame and money. If Yadav and his side are unable to defy the diktats of an strong-handed leader, what hope do the women have, whose improved position is only recently attained?

Maybe it's even more surprising that we're still talking about a simple greeting. The Asia Cup uproar led to much analysis of that specific sporting tradition, especially because it is viewed as the definitive symbol of sportsmanship. But Yadav's snub was much less important than what he stated right after the first game.

The India captain deemed the victory stand the "ideal moment" to devote his team's victory to the military personnel who had taken part in India's attacks on Pakistan in May, referred to as Operation Sindoor. "My wish is they will inspire us all," Yadav told the post-match interviewer, "and we give them further cause in the field each time we get an opportunity to make them smile."

This is where we are: a real-time discussion by a sporting leader openly celebrating a armed attack in which many people lost their lives. Previously, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a single humanitarian message approved by the ICC, including the dove logo – a direct emblem of peace – on his bat. Yadav was eventually penalized 30% of his match fee for the comments. He wasn't the only one sanctioned. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated aircraft crashing and made "6-0" gestures to the crowd in the Super4 match – also referencing the conflict – was given the identical penalty.

This is not a matter of not respecting your opponents – this is sport co-opted as patriotic messaging. It's pointless to be ethically angered by a absent handshake when that's merely a minor plot development in the story of two countries already employing cricket as a diplomatic tool and weapon of indirect conflict. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi clearly stated this with his social media post after the final ("Operation Sindoor on the games field. Outcome is the same – India wins!"). Naqvi, for his part, proclaims that sport and politics must remain separate, while double-stacking positions as a government minister and chair of the PCB, and directly mentioning the Indian prime minister about his country's "embarrassing losses" on the battlefield.

The takeaway from this situation is not about the sport, or India, or the Pakistani team, in separation. It's a warning that the notion of ping pong diplomacy is finished, at least for now. The same sport that was used to build bridges between the countries 20 years ago is now being used to inflame tensions between them by people who are fully aware what they're attempting, and massive followings who are eager participants.

Division is infecting every realm of public life and as the most prominent of the global soft powers, athletics is constantly vulnerable: it's a form of leisure that literally encourages you to choose a team. Plenty who consider India's gesture towards Pakistan aggressive will still champion a Ukrainian tennis player's entitlement to decline meeting a Russian competitor on the court.

If you're still kidding yourself that the athletic field is a protected environment that unites countries, go back and watch the Ryder Cup recap. The behavior of the New York crowds was the "ideal reflection" of a golf-loving president who openly incites hatred against his adversaries. Not only did we witness the erosion of the usual sporting principles of equity and mutual respect, but how quickly this might be normalized and nodded through when sportspeople themselves – like US captain Keegan Bradley – refuse to recognise and penalize it.

A post-game greeting is supposed to represent that, at the end of every competition, no matter how intense or bad-tempered, the competitors are putting off their simulated rivalry and recognizing their common humanity. If the enmity isn't pretend – if it requires its athletes emerge in vocal support of their national armed forces – then what is the purpose with the arena of sports at all? It would be equivalent to put on the fatigues immediately.