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It is merely in the past few seasons that female athletes in the South Asian region have gained recognition as professional cricket players. Over many years, they faced scorn, disapproval, ostracism – including the threat of physical harm – to pursue their passion. Now, India is hosting a global tournament with a total purse of $13.8 million, where the host country's athletes could become national treasures if they secure their first championship win.

This would, then, be a great injustice if this weekend's talk focused on their men's teams. And yet, when India face Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are inevitable. Not because the host team are strong favorites to triumph, but because they are unlikely to shake hands with their opposition. The handshake controversy, as it's been dubbed, will have a another chapter.

In case you weren't aware of the initial incident, 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 captain, Suryakumar Yadav, and his team disappeared the field to avoid the usual post-game post-match ritual. A couple of similar sequels transpired in the knockout round and the final, culminating in a long-delayed presentation ceremony where the new champions refused to receive the cup from the Pakistan Cricket Board's head, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed comic if it hadn't been so distressing.

Observers of the women's World Cup might well have hoped for, and even pictured, a alternative conduct on Sunday. Female athletics is supposed to provide a fresh model for the industry and an different path to negative legacies. The sight of Harmanpreet Kaur's players offering the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her squad would have made a strong message in an increasingly divided world.

It might have acknowledged the mutually adverse circumstances they have conquered and offered a symbolic reminder that politics are fleeting compared with the connection of women's unity. Undoubtedly, it would have deserved a spot alongside the other positive narrative at this competition: the exiled Afghanistan cricketers welcomed as observers, being reintegrated into the sport four years after the Taliban drove them from their country.

Rather, we've collided with the firm boundaries of the sporting sisterhood. This comes as no surprise. India's male cricketers are mega celebrities in their country, idolized like deities, treated like nobility. They possess all the benefits and power that accompanies fame and wealth. If Yadav and his side are unable to defy the diktats of an authoritarian leader, what chance do the female players have, whose elevated status is only newly won?

Maybe it's even more surprising that we're continuing to discuss about a handshake. The Asia Cup uproar prompted much deconstruction of that particular sporting tradition, not least because it is considered the ultimate marker of sportsmanship. But Yadav's snub was far less significant than what he said immediately after the first game.

Skipper Yadav deemed the victory stand the "ideal moment" to devote his team's win to the armed forces who had participated in India's strikes on Pakistan in May, known as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they continue to 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 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 died. Previously, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja was unable to display a solitary peaceful symbol approved by the ICC, not even the peace dove – a direct sign of harmony – on his equipment. Yadav was subsequently fined 30% of his game earnings for the remarks. He was not the only one sanctioned. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated aircraft crashing and made "6-0" signals to the crowd in the later game – also referencing the conflict – was given the same punishment.

This isn't a issue of not respecting your opponents – this is sport co-opted as patriotic messaging. There's no use to be morally outraged by a absent greeting when that's simply a small detail in the narrative of two countries already employing cricket as a diplomatic tool and instrument of proxy war. Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi made that explicit with his social media post after the final ("Operation Sindoor on the games field. Outcome is the same – India wins!"). Naqvi, for his part, blares that athletics and governance must remain separate, while double-stacking roles as a government minister and chair of the PCB, and publicly tagging the Indian prime minister about his country's "humiliating defeats" on the war front.

The takeaway from this episode shouldn't be about cricket, or the Indian side, or the Pakistani team, in isolation. It's a warning that the concept of ping pong diplomacy is over, at least for now. The same sport that was used to build bridges between the nations 20 years ago is now being utilized to heighten hostilities between them by individuals who are fully aware what they're attempting, and massive followings who are active supporters.

Polarisation is affecting every aspect of society and as the greatest of the international cultural influences, sport is always susceptible: it's a type of entertainment that directly encourages you to pick a side. Many who consider India's actions towards Pakistan aggressive will nonetheless support a Ukrainian tennis player's entitlement to refuse to greet a Russian competitor across the net.

Should anyone still believe that the sporting arena is a protected environment that unites countries, go back and watch the golf tournament highlights. The conduct of the Bethpage spectators was the "ideal reflection" of a leader who enjoys the sport who openly incites animosity against his adversaries. We observed not just the decline of the usual sporting principles of equity and mutual respect, but the speed at which this might be normalized and tacitly approved when sportspeople themselves – like US captain Keegan Bradley – refuse to recognise and sanction it.

A post-game greeting is supposed to signify that, at the end of any contest, no matter how bitter or bad-tempered, the participants are putting off their simulated rivalry and acknowledging their common humanity. 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? You might as well don the fatigues now.