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It is merely in recent years that women in the subcontinent have gained recognition as serious cricketers. For generations, they faced ridicule, censure, ostracism – including the threat of violence – to follow their love for the game. Now, India is staging a global tournament with a total purse of $13.8 million, where the host country's players could emerge as beloved icons if they achieve their first championship win.

It would, then, be a great injustice if this weekend's discussion focused on their men's teams. And yet, when India confront Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are unavoidable. And not because the host team are strong favorites to triumph, but because they are not expected to shake hands with their rivals. The handshake controversy, as it's been dubbed, will have a fourth instalment.

In case you weren't aware of the original drama, it took place at the end of the men's group match between India and Pakistan at the continental championship last month when the India captain, Suryakumar Yadav, and his squad hurried off the pitch to avoid the usual post-game post-match ritual. A couple of same-y sequels transpired in the Super4 match and the final, climaxing in a protracted presentation ceremony where the new champions declined to receive the trophy from the Pakistan Cricket Board's head, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed comic if it weren't so tragic.

Observers of the women's World Cup might well have anticipated, and even imagined, a alternative conduct on Sunday. Women's sport is supposed to provide a fresh model for the sports world and an alternative to toxic traditions. The image of Harmanpreet Kaur's team members extending the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her team would have sent a strong message in an increasingly divided world.

Such an act could have recognized the shared challenging environment they have overcome and offered a symbolic reminder that political issues are fleeting compared with the bond of female solidarity. Undoubtedly, it would have deserved a place alongside the other positive narrative 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 collided with the firm boundaries of the sporting sisterhood. This comes as no surprise. India's male cricketers are huge stars in their country, idolized like deities, treated like nobility. They enjoy all the benefits and influence that comes with stardom and money. If Yadav and his side can't balk the diktats of an authoritarian leader, what hope do the female players have, whose improved position is only recently attained?

Maybe it's even more surprising that we're still talking about a handshake. The Asia Cup furore led to much deconstruction of that particular sporting tradition, especially because it is viewed as the ultimate marker of fair play. But Yadav's snub was far less significant than what he stated right after the initial match.

The India captain considered the victory stand the "ideal moment" to devote his team's win to the military personnel who had participated in India's attacks on Pakistan in May, referred to as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they continue to inspire us all," Yadav informed the post-game reporter, "and we give them further cause in the field whenever we get an opportunity to make them smile."

This is where we are: a live interview by a sporting leader publicly praising a military assault in which dozens lost their lives. Previously, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a single humanitarian message approved by the ICC, not even the dove logo – a literal emblem of harmony – on his equipment. Yadav was subsequently penalized 30% of his game earnings for the remarks. He was not the only one disciplined. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated aircraft crashing and made "6-0" gestures to the audience in the later game – similarly alluding to the conflict – was given the same punishment.

This isn't a matter of failing to honor your rivals – this is sport appropriated as nationalistic propaganda. There's no use to be ethically angered by a absent handshake when that's simply a small detail in the story of two nations actively using cricket as a political lever and instrument of indirect conflict. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi made that explicit with his post-final tweet ("Operation Sindoor on the cricket pitch. Outcome is the same – India wins!"). Naqvi, for his part, blares that sport and politics shouldn't mix, while double-stacking positions 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 lesson from this episode shouldn't be about the sport, or the Indian side, or Pakistan, in separation. It serves as a caution that the notion of ping pong diplomacy is finished, at least for now. The very game that was employed to build bridges between the countries 20 years ago is now being used to heighten hostilities between them by individuals who know exactly what they're doing, and huge fanbases who are active supporters.

Division is infecting every realm of public life and as the most prominent of the global soft powers, sport is always vulnerable: it's a form of leisure that directly invites you to choose a team. Plenty who find India's actions towards Pakistan aggressive will nonetheless champion a Ukrainian tennis player's right to decline meeting a Russian opponent across the net.

Should anyone still believe that the athletic field is a magical safe space that unites countries, review the Ryder Cup recap. The conduct of the New York crowds was the "ideal reflection" of a leader who enjoys the sport who openly incites animosity against his opponents. Not only did we witness the erosion of the usual sporting principles of equity and mutual respect, but the speed at which this might be accepted and nodded through when sportspeople themselves – like US captain Keegan Bradley – refuse to recognise and sanction it.

A handshake is meant to represent that, at the conclusion of every competition, no matter how bitter or heated, the competitors are setting aside their pretend enmity and acknowledging their shared human bond. If the enmity isn't pretend – demanding that its players come out in vocal support of their respective militaries – then what is the purpose with the sporting field at all? It would be equivalent to don the fatigues now.