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It's only in recent years that women in the subcontinent have been acknowledged as serious cricketers. For generations, they endured ridicule, disapproval, ostracism – even the threat of violence – to follow their passion. Now, India is staging a global tournament with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the home nation's athletes could emerge as beloved icons if they achieve their maiden championship win.

This would, then, be a travesty if the upcoming discussion focused on their men's teams. However, when India confront Pakistan on Sunday, parallels are inevitable. 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, if we must call it that, will have a fourth instalment.

In case you weren't aware of the initial incident, 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 skipper, Suryakumar Yadav, and his squad disappeared the field to avoid the usual post-game post-match ritual. A couple of similar follow-ups transpired in the Super4 match and the final, culminating in a long-delayed presentation ceremony where the new champions refused to accept the trophy from the Pakistan Cricket Board's chair, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed comic if it hadn't been so tragic.

Those following the women's World Cup might well have anticipated, and even imagined, a different approach on Sunday. Female athletics is intended to offer a fresh model for the industry and an alternative to negative legacies. The image of Harmanpreet Kaur's players extending the hand of camaraderie to Fatima Sana and her team would have made a powerful statement in an ever more polarized world.

Such an act could have acknowledged the shared challenging environment they have overcome and provided a symbolic reminder that political issues are fleeting compared with the connection of women's unity. It would certainly have deserved a spot alongside the other positive narrative at this tournament: the exiled Afghanistan players welcomed as guests, being reintegrated into the game four years after the Taliban drove them from their homes.

Rather, we've collided with the firm boundaries of the sporting sisterhood. This comes as no surprise. India's men's players are huge stars in their homeland, idolized like gods, regarded like nobility. They enjoy all the privilege and influence that accompanies fame and money. If Yadav and his side can't balk the directives of an authoritarian prime minister, what hope do the women have, whose improved position is only newly won?

Perhaps it's even more surprising that we're continuing to discuss about a handshake. The Asia Cup uproar led to much analysis of that particular sporting tradition, not least because it is considered the definitive symbol of fair play. But Yadav's snub was much less important than what he stated right after the first game.

The India captain considered the winners' podium the "perfect occasion" to devote his team's win to the military personnel who had taken part in India's attacks on Pakistan in May, known as Operation Sindoor. "My wish is they continue to inspire us all," Yadav informed the post-game reporter, "and we give them further cause on the ground each time we have the chance to bring them joy."

This is where we are: a real-time discussion by a team captain openly celebrating a armed attack in which many people lost their lives. Previously, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a single peaceful symbol approved by the ICC, including the dove logo – a literal emblem of harmony – on his equipment. Yadav was eventually fined 30% of his match fee for the comments. He was not the sole individual sanctioned. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who mimicked plane crashes and made "6-0" signals to the audience in the later game – also referencing the hostilities – was given the identical penalty.

This is not a issue of not respecting your rivals – this is sport appropriated as nationalistic propaganda. It's pointless to be morally outraged by a absent greeting when that's merely a minor plot development in the story of two nations already employing cricket as a diplomatic tool and weapon of indirect conflict. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi made that explicit with his social media post after the final ("Operation Sindoor on the cricket pitch. The result remains unchanged – India wins!"). Naqvi, for his part, proclaims that sport and politics shouldn't mix, while holding dual positions as a state official and head of the PCB, and directly mentioning the Indian prime minister about his country's "embarrassing losses" on the war front.

The lesson from this situation is not about cricket, or the Indian side, or Pakistan, in separation. It's a warning that the concept of ping pong diplomacy is over, at least for now. The very game that was employed to foster connections between the nations 20 years ago is now being utilized to heighten hostilities between them by individuals who are fully aware what they're doing, and huge fanbases who are active supporters.

Polarisation is affecting every aspect of public life and as the greatest of the international cultural influences, athletics is always vulnerable: it's a type of leisure that literally encourages you to choose a team. Many who consider India's actions towards Pakistan belligerent will still support a Ukrainian tennis player's entitlement to decline meeting a Russian opponent across the net.

If you're still kidding yourself that the athletic field is a protected environment that brings nations together, review the golf tournament recap. The conduct of the Bethpage crowds was the "perfect tribute" of a leader who enjoys the sport who openly incites hatred against his opponents. We observed not just the erosion of the typical sporting values of fairness and shared courtesy, but the speed at which this might be normalized and tacitly approved when athletes – such as US captain Keegan Bradley – fail to acknowledge and sanction it.

A post-game greeting is supposed to represent that, at the end of any contest, no matter how intense or heated, the participants are setting aside their pretend enmity and recognizing their common humanity. Should the rivalry is genuine – if it requires its players emerge in vocal support of their national armed forces – then why are you bothering with the sporting field at all? You might as well don the fatigues now.