By Dipak Kurmi
On the evening of the Asia Cup match in Dubai, the Indian cricket team led by Suryakumar Yadav chose not to shake hands with the Pakistani players. In that moment, the last fragile wall separating sports from politics crumbled. For decades, it has been said that sports and politics must not mix, that athletes want nothing more than to play their game, and that the drama on the field should be insulated from the disputes of nations. Yet in contests where players take the field only after the national anthems of their countries are played, that idea was always tenuous, hanging by a thread. When Yadav remarked that “the government, BCCI, we are all aligned,” the thread snapped. Cricket, politics, and the politics of cricket stood fully conjoined, and with that alignment, the carefully nurtured spirit of sportsmanship was stubbed out in the desert air of Dubai.
This was no small symbolic act. In the global vocabulary of sport, a handshake has always meant civility, the recognition that rivalry ends with the last ball or whistle. To refuse the gesture is to weaponise sport itself, to turn it into an extension of political hostility. Critics of the Indian team’s decision argue exactly this: that the no-handshake incident transforms cricket into another theatre of the India-Pakistan struggle, an act of hostility dressed in sporting whites. Yet supporters of the move argue the opposite — that no symbolic act of goodwill is possible when the wounds of violence, such as the recent bloodshed in Pahalgam, are still raw.
The symbolism of the handshake has mattered in sports for generations. It carries with it the idea that opponents are adversaries only on the field and that once the game ends, they rejoin the community of human civility. Between two nations with long, hostile histories, it has occasionally hinted at the possibility of peace — a small moment in which political bitterness was suspended, if only briefly. But when nations are entrenched in hostility, does the handshake become nothing more than a pretence? Does it not risk becoming hypocrisy, a performance of civility when neither side believes in it?
India appears to be normalising a new kind of civility — one where the game is played as a professional duty but stripped of gestures of camaraderie. “We shall play when required, but we won’t indulge in symbolism,” seems to be the new code. This approach reflects the reality that cricket today is a commercial enterprise as much as a sport, and in business-like fashion, the players are content to complete their role and move on. The long-term consequences of this shift are still uncertain. It may remain an exceptional response to Pakistan, or it may evolve into a new culture of civil animosity, where sport is stripped of its rituals of respect.
The implications go beyond the players. What does the fan in the stadium do now? At the match in Dubai, Indian and Pakistani fans were seen sitting together, laughing, exchanging banter, sharing the joy and the tension of the contest. But with one team refusing handshakes and the other captain absenting himself from the presentation ceremony in protest, the atmosphere has shifted. Should fans still mingle freely, or will they now feel pressured to separate themselves into national islands? Organisers, wary of clashes, may themselves push toward segregation. If that happens, the ripple effect will transform not just the mood of the stands but also the experience of young fans growing up in this climate of hostility.
The unease does not stop there. Former cricketers from both sides who share genuine friendships and work together in commentary boxes may find themselves under pressure. Ravi Shastri and Wasim Akram once co-hosted a popular show called Shaz and Waz, built on the very idea that cricketing friendships could transcend national divides. Will such camaraderie survive in a climate where even handshakes are contested? Already, a video of Shubman Gill advising Hong Kong players went viral on social media, with critics wrongly assuming he was helping Pakistani cricketers. If simple gestures of sportsmanship are being policed so heavily, how will players and commentators maintain their friendships across the border?
The incident also raises awkward questions for smaller cricketing nations. Teams like UAE or Oman often have a mix of Indian and Pakistani expatriates. How will India’s new policy play out against such teams? Will handshakes be extended to some players but not others, or is the boycott reserved strictly for those who wear the Pakistani green? The logic, once broken down, begins to fray at the edges.
This is not the first time sport has faced such dilemmas. In 2023, at the World Fencing Championship, Ukraine’s Olga Kharlan refused to shake hands with a Russian opponent, choosing instead to offer a symbolic tap of blades in protest against the war. When the Russian fencer refused and lodged a protest, Kharlan was disqualified. But the International Olympic Committee later intervened, recognising the right of athletes to refuse handshakes in contexts of war, and Kharlan went on to win gold at the Paris Olympics in 2024. That precedent suggests that sporting bodies may eventually accept that gestures of civility cannot be divorced from geopolitics. Yet the Ukraine-Russia case is different in one crucial respect: those nations are engaged in an active war. India and Pakistan, for all their hostility, still meet on the cricket field in multi-nation tournaments. This makes the refusal of gestures like handshakes more fraught and more symbolic.
How Pakistan will respond remains uncertain. Will they adopt the same posture, turning their backs on symbolic civility? Or will they go the other way, using gestures of goodwill to gain moral high ground? The response will shape the narrative in the next clash. If passions rise and sledging begins, how will India respond? Will verbal jousting be considered acceptable but physical handshakes forbidden? Where will the lines of acceptable engagement be drawn?
There is a deeper irony here. For decades, India has prided itself on the notion that cricket builds bridges where diplomacy falters. The 2004 India-Pakistan cricket tour was celebrated as a “cricket diplomacy” initiative that thawed relations between the two nations. Fans crossed borders, stadiums overflowed, and politicians basked in the afterglow. The current moment reverses that history. Cricket has stopped being a bridge and has become another battlefield in the larger conflict.
The commercialisation of sport intensifies this trend. Cricket is no longer just about players and fans but also about massive television audiences, sponsors, and global image. In such an environment, gestures of civility become part of the spectacle, and refusing them becomes a political statement amplified worldwide. When India says “no handshake,” it is not just an action on the field but a message carried into living rooms, boardrooms, and diplomatic circles across continents.
In the end, the no-handshake is a choice that the Indian team has exercised, with the backing of its board and its government. Whether it becomes a new normal depends on how fans, organisers, and players adapt. The slogan “Don’t politicise sports” now rings hollow, for sport and politics are no longer parallel tracks — they have converged. The stadium handshake, once a simple act of sportsmanship, now carries the weight of national conflict. And as long as that remains true, every gesture — or refusal of one — will be read as a political act.
The Asia Cup incident was not just a minor breach of etiquette. It was a signal of how sport in South Asia is evolving, mirroring the political mood of the region. It tells us that even in the sanctuary of the stadium, where fans once found escape from the bitterness of politics, there is no longer any escape. The cricket field is now an extension of the political arena, and the vanished handshake may be the most telling symbol of our times.
(the writer can be reached at dipakkurmiglpltd@gmail.com)
