India walloped Pakistan in the Asia Cup; seven wickets down, target chased early, a convincing win for the Blue. But there was no customary respect. No shared smiles. Just cold silence and closed dressing room doors. The PCB threw a fit, claiming the umpire told India not to shake hands. Seriously? The same umpire who decides wides and no-balls is now the UN envoy for Indo-Pak relations? If cricket collapses into conspiracy theories about handshakes, the spirit of the game has already retired hurt. But if a handshake hurts Islamabad more than a lost match, maybe Pakistani citizens should turn that outrage upward: stop Pahalgams, stop proxy wars, stop the bleeding, and the handshakes will perhaps return faster than a Bumrah yorker. Pakistan has forgotten that its terrorist games deserve bullets, not Yorkers.
This match was the first India Pakistan match since the Pahalgam terror attack in April, in which 26 civilians were murdered by Pakistani terrorists. Indian captain, Suryakumar Yadav, dedicated the victory to the victims and to India’s armed forces. The captain’s handshake was skipped not only after the match, but at the toss too. India avoided the post-match presentation with Pakistani players. There is a precedent. After the 2008 Mumbai Attacks, cricketing ties between the neighbours froze—here the handshake wasn’t even an option. In 2019 World Cup, in Manchester India vs Pakistan was billed “more war than sport.” Each flashpoint shows how cricket isn’t just a game here but the thermometer of trust. Adam Gilchrist playing in the 2003 World Cup semi-final of Australia vs Sri Lanka edged a ball, and the umpire didn’t give him out. But Gilchrist walked off anyway, because he knew he had made a mistake. In 1999 in Chennai, India lost, but applauded Wasim Akram’s men. MS Dhoni recalled Ian Bell at the 2011 Trent Bridge Test after Bell was controversially run out, thinking the ball had crossed the boundary. Dhoni withdrew the appeal after the break, recalling Bell. Bell went on to score a century and Dhoni later received the ICC “Spirit of Cricket Award.”
Cricket began as a deeply classed, exclusivist, and colonial sport in late-Victorian England, where amateurs in silk ties sneered at working-class pros. Paradoxically, it became the world’s most democratic game once it left the empire’s green lawns. When India beat England in 1952, it wasn’t just sport; it was the colonised beating the coloniser. When Pakistan toured India in 1952, it was diplomacy on grass. Cricket became a Republic of Civility and Skill—22 individuals bound by rules, civility, and shared respect. Players played long Test matches, walked when they believed they were out, sportsmanship was not always perfect but expected. In the mid-20th century, cricket in India was less saturated by money, less global brand, more about pride, fewer cameras. We now risk the game losing the rituals that made it more than just competition. Let’s be blunt. Pakistani players kneeling on the field and offering namaz in choreographed displays of religiosity isn’t just faith, it’s a re-declaration of an ancient war. Once Imran Khan was quoted saying each time Pakistan plays against India he sees it as jihad. Cricket’s magic is that the ball doesn’t care. It swings by humidity, not by history. It spins because of physics, not because of faith. It’s supposed to be ideology-neutral geometry.
Here’s where Gen Z comes in. You grew up with IPL as Netflix. You know cricket isn’t just cover drives, it’s content, which means you control the narrative. If Pakistanis are outraged over a handshake, use that energy. Meme it. Remix handshake reels with old clips of Sourav and Inzamam smiling, Tendulkar and Akram hugging. Flood Insta with edits: “If you can’t hold a handshake, how will you ever hold peace?” Because in this century, symbolism is in Instagram reels. If Pakistanis rage over no handshake, rage harder at those who make handshakes impossible. And if cricket must remain the Republic of Civility, then we must insist it stays that way where the only war worth fighting is between bat and ball. Sport, said Albert Camus, taught him everything about morality. But he never saw a T20. A cover drive doesn’t care about borders. A googly is ideology-neutral. The ball doesn’t know which religion you follow; it just swings when conditions change. Because cricket isn’t jihad, jingoism, or juggernaut. It’s civility and skill. And here’s the spicy truth: Pakistan can protest till stumps, but peace isn’t blocked by Kohli’s palm, it’s blocked by their playbook. Until then, cricket is a cash cow, a culture war, clickbait. The Republic of Civility waits for us to reclaim it.