Handshakes and operations.

There’s something almost laughable, if it weren’t so tragic, about calling a cricket match Operation Sindoor, and then forgetting the one institution that actually conducts operations: the military.

You want to borrow their vocabulary? Fine. But then be prepared to live by their code.

Because the one thing the military knows, and knows in its bones, is how to treat the enemy.

I grew up in cantonments. I’ve heard the war stories, drunk the Old Monk, seen their selfies with friends who made the ultimate sacrifice on drawing-room walls, and heard the unmistakable pride in a soldier’s voice when he says, “We are professionals. We are gentlemen. We do our job, but we never forget that those on the other side are also doing theirs.”

A defeated enemy combatant, someone who was literally trying to kill you, take your land, destroy your unit just before you bested him, is still treated with a level of professional respect that would put most civilians to shame. The Indian Army buries the unclaimed enemy dead with full honours. Performs their last rites according to their faith. Sends their letters back. Even commends the brave acts at times. Not for them. For us. Because what we do says more about us than about the person lying six feet under.

The tea offered to Wg Cdr Abhinandan wasn’t a Pakistani innovation, regardless of what their PR might gloat about. It was simply what any civilised force does. What we have done, time and again, in 1947, in 1965, in 1971, in 1998, and multiple times between and since. It is what we would do again tomorrow if the roles were reversed, as they regularly are.

Yes, there are anomalies. There is the horrific case of Captain Saurabh Kalia, who was captured and tortured to death in Pakistani custody. But if the enemy behaves in a bestial fashion, that does not mean we should too. That is the difference between us and them. Unless, of course, we wish to erase that difference altogether.

And if you’ve ever sat in a fauji mess long enough to try leaving after one drink, you’ve probably heard the line:

“एक ड्रिंक तो दुश्मन को भी पिलाया जाता है, भाई! तू तो दोस्त है। चल एक और लगा!”

That’s not just alcohol talking. That’s a philosophy. That’s what the uniform teaches you: how to win without being small.

So when I saw what happened at the recent Asia Cup, where young men on a cricket field, draped in the tricolour, invoked military operations in celebration of winning a match, and then proceeded to mock, belittle, and publicly sneer at the opposition, I had a bad taste in my mouth. You see, I didn’t see pride. I saw a performance.

And a poor one at that.

To be clear, the other side, the Pakistani team, the ACC officials, the post-match theatrics, were no better. The refusal to hand over the trophy, the deliberate disruption of the ceremony, the pettiness. It was all distasteful.

But our response? Our posturing, our condescension, our high-on-hashtag nationalism? That was supposed to be different. Because we were supposed to be better.

And more importantly, we had the choice.

We could have refused to play. We could have said,

“No, this is not a relationship we recognise, this is not an opponent we consider worthy.”

And that would have been a statement, albeit a controversial one, but at least a coherent one.

But we didn’t. We chose to play.

And if you choose to play, you do not get to treat your opponent as subhuman. You do not get to jeer. You do not get to pretend you’re firing bullets when you’re bowling yorkers.

Because if you believe they are worthy of a game, then treat them like fellow professionals.

And if you don’t, then don’t turn up in costume, beat them, and spit on their face after.

Abraham Lincoln once said,

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.”

Victory is power. And in that moment, when the trophy is yours and the stadium is chanting your name, the spotlight doesn’t just illuminate your skill. It lays bare your character.

And what we saw wasn’t character. It was theatre. And not very good theatre, at that.

Of all sports, for this kind of gracelessness to unfold in cricket, the game of handshakes and nods, of flannels and fair play, of walking before being given out and applauding a rival’s straight drive with a “Well played!”, for this to unfold there on that pitch, and to be normalised, celebrated, and broadcast with pride, even by someone occupying a post as esteemed as the Prime Minister of the Republic of India?

That, my friend, may be a lot of things. But I’ll tell you what it isn’t: Cricket. And it most certainly isn’t war, despite all your cosplay fantasies.

If you’re still unsure what dignity looks like, I suggest you watch Neeraj Chopra on the field. Watch how he treats his Pakistani counterpart, how he competes fiercely, celebrates quietly, and speaks respectfully. It couldn’t be starker, the contrast. But then, that is to be expected. Hony Lt Col Neeraj Chopra, you see, is an actual armyman. A real, literal, soldier. One with honour.

And that’s more than can be said about our current lot of cricketers. Sadly.

And if we truly want to invoke the military in our metaphors, if we insist on calling victories “operations”, if we want to cosplay as soldiers every time we win a match, then at least let us learn the first rule of soldiering.

Fight with passion. Lose with dignity. Win with honour. And do all of the above with grace.

Or don’t play at all.

Video above: The Asian teams meeting with the ACC dignitaries (including their chief, from whose hands the Indian team refused to accept the trophy) just a fortnight ago. Look at the smiles, the handshakes, and the camaraderie. And tell me you still think the BCCI hasn’t made chutiyas out of all us cricket-loving Indians.