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It's only in recent years that women in the subcontinent have gained recognition as professional cricket players. Over many years, they endured ridicule, disapproval, exclusion – even the risk of physical harm – to follow their passion. Now, India is hosting a World Cup with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the host country's players could become national treasures if they secure their maiden championship win.

This would, then, be a travesty if the upcoming talk focused on their men's teams. And yet, when India confront Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are inevitable. Not because the host team are strong favorites to win, but because they are not expected to shake hands with their opposition. The handshake controversy, if we must call it that, will have a fourth instalment.

If you missed the original drama, it took place at the conclusion 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 squad hurried off the pitch to evade the usual post-game post-match ritual. A couple of similar sequels occurred in the Super4 match and the championship game, culminating in a long-delayed award ceremony where the new champions declined to accept the trophy from the Pakistan Cricket Board's head, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed humorous if it hadn't been so tragic.

Those following the female cricket World Cup might well have hoped for, and even imagined, a different approach on Sunday. Female athletics is intended to offer a fresh model for the sports world and an alternative to negative legacies. The image of Harmanpreet Kaur's players extending the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her squad would have made a powerful statement in an increasingly divided 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 bond of female solidarity. Undoubtedly, it would have deserved a spot alongside the additional good news story at this tournament: the exiled Afghanistan players invited as observers, being brought back into the sport four years after the Taliban drove them from their country.

Instead, we've encountered the firm boundaries of the female athletic community. This comes as no surprise. India's men's players are mega celebrities in their country, worshipped like deities, regarded like royalty. They possess all the privilege and power that comes with stardom and money. If Yadav and his team are unable to defy the directives of an strong-handed leader, what hope do the women have, whose elevated status is only newly won?

Perhaps it's more astonishing that we're continuing to discuss about a handshake. The Asia Cup uproar led to much analysis of that specific sporting ritual, especially because it is viewed as the definitive symbol of fair play. But Yadav's refusal was much less important than what he said right after the first game.

Skipper Yadav considered the victory stand the "ideal moment" to devote his team's victory to the armed forces who had participated in India's strikes on Pakistan in May, known as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they will inspire us all," Yadav told the post-match interviewer, "so we can provide them further cause in the field each time we have the chance to make them smile."

This is where we are: a real-time discussion by a sporting leader publicly praising a military assault in which dozens died. Two years ago, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a single humanitarian message approved by the ICC, not even the dove logo – a literal sign of harmony – on his bat. Yadav was eventually fined 30% of his match fee for the comments. He was not the only one sanctioned. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated plane crashes and made "six-zero" gestures to the audience in the later game – similarly alluding to the hostilities – received the identical penalty.

This is not a issue of not respecting your opponents – this is sport co-opted as nationalistic propaganda. There's no use to be morally outraged by a missing handshake when that's simply a minor plot development in the story of two nations actively using cricket as a diplomatic tool 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, proclaims that athletics and governance must remain separate, while holding dual roles as a government minister and head of the PCB, and directly mentioning the Indian prime minister about his country's "humiliating defeats" on the battlefield.

The takeaway from this episode shouldn't be about cricket, or the Indian side, 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 employed to build bridges between the nations 20 years ago is now being utilized to heighten hostilities between them by individuals who know exactly what they're doing, and massive followings who are eager participants.

Division 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 literally invites you to choose a team. Many who find India's actions towards Pakistan belligerent will nonetheless support a Ukrainian tennis player's right to refuse to greet a Russian opponent across the net.

Should anyone still believe that the athletic field is a protected environment that brings nations together, go back and watch the Ryder Cup recap. The conduct of the Bethpage spectators was the "ideal reflection" of a golf-loving president who openly incites animosity against his opponents. Not only did we witness the erosion of the typical sporting principles of fairness and mutual respect, but the speed at which this might be normalized and tacitly approved when athletes – such as US captain Keegan Bradley – refuse to recognise and penalize it.

A handshake is meant to represent that, at the end of every competition, however bitter or heated, the competitors are setting aside their simulated rivalry and acknowledging their common humanity. If the enmity is genuine – if it requires its players come out in vocal support of their respective militaries – then what is the purpose with the arena of sports at all? You might as well put on the fatigues immediately.