Archana Masih and photographer Jewella C Miranda visit Nirmal Hridaya, Mother Teresa's famed hospice.

It is a home where someone dies every day. Where the starved and diseased -- skins stretched over frail frames, infested with maggots, covered with faeces -- assemble. Some, with the last dredges of strength make it on their own, others are brought by ambulances, municipality vans, rickshaws ... or by relatives who have no use for a heap of human suffering anymore.

Nirmal Hridaya, within the precincts of the Kalighat temple in Calcutta, was Mother Teresa's first home. It was also the one closest to her heart. Opened in 1952, in what was then a dormitory for pilgrims, she brought dying beggars in a wheelbarrow to the hospice so that they could die in dignity. The municipal corporation provided her space and her mission began.

Today, more than 45 years later, an estimated 70,000 people have crossed this home for the dying. Its unimposing door, inconspicuous among the melee of devotees, puja paraphernalia, pujaris and tourists -- Nirmal Hridaya continues to admit the unwanted. Every day. Any hour.

Male -- 48 Female -- 45 Admission -- 4 Death -- 1

The small board hangs on the same pillar, only the numbers change every day. Nuns erase the chalk-scribbled digits, as another hapless body occupies a vacated bed.

"We have 100 beds but if there are more patients, we accommodate them on the floor," says Sister Ashrita, who left her home in Kerala 29 years ago to join the Missionaries of Charity. "I remember my father did not want me to go for the interview with Sister Fredericka, but later he relented," says the nun who has spent the last two years at Nirmal Hridaya.

For the seven sisters living on the first floor of the hospice, the day at Nirmal Hridaya begins early. Up at 0410 hours, they tackle their chores after morning prayers. Novices from Mother House and visiting volunteers help in cleaning the home, bathing the inmates and preparing breakfast. Brothers -- the male wing of the order -- come for dressing wounds, while volunteers assist in shaving the frail patients.

"One has to live here for at least a week to understand the misery of the people and the dedication of those who work here," says Chandramani Agarwalla -- a co-worker in the hospice since 1982. Scarcely distracted by the howling of a patient in the middle of the room getting his wounds cleaned, Agarwalla says Mother Teresa always told visiting doctors they could only be called complete professionals after seeing the extent of human suffering at Nirmal Hridaya.

It is a suffering that is wretched. Heart rending. Priests with masks and gloves treat cavernous wounds. Mangled calves. Lacerated heels. Bruised faces. Some lie under potable IVs. Others, inflicted with tuberculosis. Heart ailments. "The morning is our busiest time because we have to clean, feed and treat them," says a stern Sister in-charge M Luke, who would prefer to do without visitors at that hour.

The workers are quick to explain that Nirmal Hridaya is not a hospital. But a hospice for the sick, hungry, destitute and dying. Doctors visit the home twice a week and sisters -- some of them trained in medicine -- provide medical aid. Mother Teresa called it a home where the abandoned could die with dignity, cared for -- not alone. Associates of the order say in the initial years, Mother used to send her sisters in all directions looking for the dying. As time progressed, civic authorities and hospitals started sending hopeless cases to Nirmal Hridaya.

And another person is carried in.

The volunteer carries the newspaper wrapped body in his arms, and rushes towards the bath slab. The woman is bathed, her head shaved. Minor cuts are dabbed with antiseptic. A yellow nightdress pulled over her emaciated frame -- and within minutes she is put on a vacant bed in the female dormitory.

"She is on number 17," Lucy -- from bed number 6 -- tells a volunteer. The occupant of a corner bed, Lucy has been at Nirmal Hridaya for the past eight years. From the outskirts of Calcutta, she does not reveal how she reached the hospice -- but finds the place very comfortable. "Since I do not have the strength to move on my own, the sisters or volunteers make me sit against the wall. That is why I like my corner bed," she says in fluent English.

Lucy has a pretty face. She is coherent and makes pleasant conversation. Moreover, her knowledge of English makes it easier for volunteers -- all of whom are Westerners -- to communicate with the others in the home. "Since I don't dirty my clothes much too often, the sisters allow me to wear my favourite blue nightdress," she makes it a point to add coyly.

However, there are others who are not as lucky. Twenty-five-year-old Surabjeet travelled from Jalpaiguri to Calcutta in search of a job -- but ended up as a beggar. A beggar friend left him at Nirmal Hridaya a year ago, since then he has wanted to go to his family in Bangladesh. And even as volunteers served fish, rice and mashed fruit for lunch that day, Surabjeet had his complaints: "The sisters are nice, but I don't like the food. I even find it difficult to breathe."

"Once lunch is over at 1100 hours, things are not as hectic," says a Japanese volunteer, "Patients then rest till 1500 hours, after which the plastic sheets on their beds are changed in case they are soiled." Dinner is distributed in the early evening, those who cannot eat are fed and others who can't digest heavier meals are given bread, milk or Horlicks.

They lie on low, narrow beds. Bedpans and glasses pushed underneath. Heads shaven, dressed in the same colours -- the inmates of Nirmal Hridaya seem to have a certain oneness about them. Some who have the strength, sit and speak to their neighbours. Or walk to the toilet with the help of a volunteer. Yet, too weak, their whole day is spent on those blue-plastic covered beds. Co-workers say after an inmate dies, the body is given to an organisation bearing the same religious affiliations as the deceased.

Known worldwide for its remarkable service, this is one hospice that has always drawn many volunteers. People say, on a given day there are 20 to 30 volunteers working in Nirmal Hridaya. They come from everywhere -- inspired by Mother Teresa's work, touched by people's misery -- and choose to help for as long as they can. "They wouldn't have ever dreamt of doing this kind of work," says Agarwalla of the busy bunch.

German Andy A first came to Nirmal Hridaya by chance sixteen years ago. Today he says Calcutta is his first home and Munich his second. Andy has remained a regular helper at the hospice for the past ten years and spends most of the year at the hospice. "I am so happy doing this work that I stay here almost permanently," says the German, who lives as a paying guest nearby. Although he misses his friends and cycling on the roads back home, he feels there is no greater satisfaction than working here.

Still, sometimes the hospice rises above the morbidity. Those rare times when a patient is well enough to leave. When back from the brink of death, he walks out of that unimposing door, and gets lost in a crowded world. "They might just be back, in an almost dying stage again -- but they do improve at times," says Agarwalla.

In its death and disease, Nirmal Hridaya has some rare triumphs too.

Mother Teresa, the legacy