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It's only in the past few seasons that women in the subcontinent have been acknowledged as serious cricketers. Over many years, they endured scorn, censure, ostracism – including the risk of physical harm – to pursue their passion. Now, India is staging a global tournament with a prize fund of $13.8 million, where the host country's athletes could emerge as beloved icons if they secure their maiden tournament victory.

It would, then, be a travesty if this weekend's talk centered around their men's teams. And yet, when India face Pakistan on Sunday, comparison are inevitable. Not because the home side are highly favoured to win, but because they are not expected to shake hands with their rivals. The handshake controversy, as it's been dubbed, will have a another chapter.

In case you weren't aware of the original drama, it occurred at the end 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 team hurried off the field to avoid the usual post-game handshake tradition. A couple of similar sequels transpired 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 chair, Mohsin Naqvi. The situation might have seemed humorous if it weren't so tragic.

Observers of the women's World Cup might well have anticipated, and even imagined, a different approach on Sunday. Women's sport is supposed to provide a fresh model for the industry and an different path to negative traditions. The sight of Harmanpreet Kaur's team members extending the fingers of friendship to Fatima Sana and her team would have made a powerful statement in an increasingly divided world.

Such an act could have acknowledged the shared challenging environment they have conquered and provided a meaningful gesture that politics are temporary compared with the connection of women's unity. Undoubtedly, it would have deserved a place alongside the other positive narrative at this tournament: the exiled Afghanistan players welcomed as observers, being brought back into the sport four years after the Taliban drove them from their country.

Instead, we've encountered the hard limits of the female athletic community. This comes as no surprise. India's male cricketers are mega celebrities in their country, worshipped like gods, treated like nobility. They possess all the benefits and power that comes with stardom and money. If Yadav and his side can't balk the directives of an authoritarian leader, what chance do the female players have, whose elevated status 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 specific sporting tradition, not least because it is viewed as the ultimate marker of sportsmanship. But Yadav's refusal was much less important than what he said immediately after the initial match.

The India captain deemed the winners' podium the "ideal moment" to dedicate his team's victory to the military personnel who had taken part in India's attacks on Pakistan in May, known as Operation Sindoor. "I hope they continue to motivate us all," Yadav told the post-match interviewer, "so we can provide them further cause on the ground whenever we get an opportunity to make them smile."

This is where we are: a real-time discussion by a team captain openly celebrating a military assault in which dozens lost their lives. Two years ago, Australian cricketer Usman Khawaja couldn't get a solitary humanitarian message approved by the ICC, not even the peace dove – a literal sign of peace – on his bat. Yadav was eventually penalized 30% of his match fee for the remarks. He wasn't the only one sanctioned. Pakistan's Haris Rauf, who imitated aircraft crashing and made "6-0" gestures to the audience in the Super4 match – also referencing the conflict – received the same punishment.

This is not a matter of not respecting your rivals – this is sport appropriated as patriotic messaging. It's pointless to be morally outraged by a absent handshake when that's simply a small detail 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 post-final tweet ("Operation Sindoor on the cricket pitch. Outcome is the same – India wins!"). Naqvi, on his side, proclaims that sport and politics shouldn't mix, while holding dual roles as a state official and head of the PCB, and directly mentioning the Indian leader about his country's "embarrassing losses" on the war front.

The lesson from this episode is not about cricket, or India, or the Pakistani team, in isolation. It serves as a caution that the concept of ping pong diplomacy is finished, for the time being. The very game 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 active supporters.

Division is infecting every aspect of society and as the greatest of the international cultural influences, athletics is constantly vulnerable: it's a type of leisure that literally invites you to choose a team. Many who find India's actions towards Pakistan belligerent will still champion a Ukrainian tennis player's entitlement to decline meeting a Russian opponent on the court.

If you're still kidding yourself that the athletic field is a magical safe space that unites countries, review the golf tournament highlights. The behavior of the New York crowds was the "ideal reflection" of a leader who enjoys the sport who publicly provokes animosity against his opponents. Not only did we witness the erosion of the typical sporting principles of equity and mutual respect, but the speed at which this might be normalized and nodded through when sportspeople themselves – such as US captain Keegan Bradley – fail to acknowledge and penalize it.

A post-game greeting is supposed to represent that, at the end of every competition, no matter how bitter or bad-tempered, the participants are setting aside their pretend enmity and recognizing their common humanity. Should the rivalry isn't pretend – if it requires its players come out in outspoken endorsement of their national armed forces – then what is the purpose with the sporting field at all? You might as well don the fatigues now.